'CO
a
MALTA
THE NURSE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN
MALTA
THE NURSE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN
BY THE
REV. ALBERT G. MACKINNON, M.A.
CHAPLAIN-MAJOR
SENIOR PRESBYTERIAN CHAPLAIN, MALTA
Author of" The Making of Hector Cameron ," "A Fight Lost
and Won," " God's Right of Way through a Young Man's
Life" " Truths of To-day: A Young Mans Creed" etc.
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
MCMXVI
i» Great Britain by Haxett, Watson «• Vinty,
Lyndon »nd Aylftbury.
TO
FIELD-MARSHAL LORD METHUEN
G.C.B., G.C.V.O., C.M.G.
GOVERNOR AND COMMANDER-IN-CIIIEF
MALTA
FOREWORD
BY His EXCELLENCY LORD METHUEN,
GOVERNOR AND COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF
OF MALTA
IF the hospital arrangements have
proved satisfactory, if the lives of
80,000 patients have been made
happy during their time in Malta, a great
amount of the credit is due to the philan-
thropic work carried out on the island.
What has struck so many besides myself
is the unostentatious, quiet manner in
which the help has been given — good
organisation, no waste of the money so
generously given.
There has been no friction, no over-
lapping.
The British Red Cross and St. John's
Ambulance Societies, the Scottish Church,
9
Foreword
the Church of England Institutes, the
Young Men's Christian Association, have
one and all given a helping hand, and
earned the gratitude of everyone in Malta.
Malta has been given a good opportunity
for doing good, and she has faced the
situation splendidly.
To no one do I tender my thanks more
truly and warmly than I do to Rev. Albert
G. Mackinnon, S. C. F. Presbyterian, one
of the foremost leaders in this labour of love.
METHUEN,
P.M.
THE PALACE,
MALTA.
August, 1916.
CONTENTS
FOREWORD, BY HIS EXCELLENCY LORD PAGB
METHUEN .... 9
INTRODUCTION .... 13
CHAPTER I
AT SEA IN WAR TIME . . . ig
CHAPTER II
MALTA HOSPITALS .... 40
CHAPTER III
A SAD MARCH PAST 60
CHAPTER IV
THE LAND OF THE OPEN HAND
II
Contents
CHAPTER V
MALTA RAINBOWS . ,. . .. 103
CHAPTER VI
IN LIGHTER VEIN , • V .. 126
CHAPTER VII
ORGANISATION . . . 1 149
CHAPTER VIII
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW . . l66
CHAPTER IX
A SCOTTISH PICNIC . . . V 187
CHAPTER X
UNDER CANVAS . *a . . 2O2
CHAPTER XI
CHRISTMAS IN MALTA ' . . f *? 21 6
CHAPTE RXII
RELIGIOUS WORK AMONGST THE
WOUNDED V . . V 238
12
INTRODUCTION
MALTA has assumed the role of
nurse. I ought perhaps to say
resumed ; for when Filippo
Villiers de L'Isle Adam took possession of
this island in 1521 at the head of his
Hospitallers, the Knights of St. John of
Jerusalem, one of the first things he did
was to build a hospital. With the Crimean
War and Florence Nightingale nursing
became a new profession for women, and
Malta had a foremost share in those epoch-
making days, when women found a rallying
place beside the flag as well as men.
Never in her history, however, did Malta
reach forth her arms, bared for the task,
to receive such a burden of suffering
humanity, the human wreckage of battle,
as in the summer months of 1915. It is to
tell you the story of these days that this
book is written. I want to bring you with
13
Introduction
me into these packed wards, where the air,
despite the best ventilation, is heavy with
the smell of iodine and the sickening odour
of lacerated flesh, where men silently grapple
with pain or their last enemy death.
In the latter days of May I found myself
in the stream of skilled men and women
who were hurrying East to help our stricken
heroes to fight and, if possible, win this
struggle in the wards, one that demanded
greater powers of endurance than the
conflict of the trenches. The surgeons had
their instruments and their medicines, the
nurses their training ; the British Govern-
ment sent me and other chaplains because it
believes that " man doth not live by bread
alone."
The following chapters are sketches drawn
from life, glimpses of wards and men as seen
by the eyes of a chaplain whose sacred
privilege it was to walk a little way with
our sufferers in the dark valley, and to hear
and see some things that it is not lawful
to repeat, and others that it is well the
world should know.
14
Introduction
The pronoun " we " often recurs in these
pages, and the reason is that on the day I
received the short summons to go the " we "
decided not to separate, but that husband
and wife would go together, although the
future had great uncertainties. Thus as
chaplain I was able to carry on a dual
work ; one half of me — the better half —
cutting and buttering bread in the morning
and making tea in the afternoon for the
thirsty soldiers who sought the shelter of
our Club ; while the other half was in the
wards whetting the appetite of recovering
men by telling them what grand teas they
would get when they were able to limp
abroad.
I stepped into a growing organism when
I landed in Malta. Like mushrooms hos-
pitals were springing up everywhere, off-
shoot buildings were becoming entities.
Schools grew into hospitals in a night, and
then spread round them their white skirts
of canvas tents. But there was order and
method in it all. ... It was fortunate that
at that moment there was at the head of
15
Introduction
affairs in Malta a Field-Marshal, whose
genius for organisation had made him one
of Britain's great generals. His Excellency
the Governor, Lord Methuen, not only
planned the construction of the rising
camps, but kept a watchful eye on each
detail, and by his constant presence in the
ward encouraged the sufferer. Especially
his ready sympathy and help towards all
true effort was a great strength to those
whose aims reached farther than the mere
healing of the body. The religious workers
knew and felt that they had a friend in the
Governor, and everything that could be
done to facilitate their work received his
speedy sanction. His kindly Foreword to
this book is but an illustration of his
willingness to assist wherever it was possi-
ble, and as long as the tale of the Malta
Hospitals is told there will live the gracious
memory of the Governor who fathered the
stricken sons of Empire placed under his
care.
My gratitude is due to a number of
magazines and newspapers to whom I am
16
Introduction
indebted for reproducing, in somewhat
different form, much of the material first
served to them in the shape of sketches.
These include The Scotsman, The Sunday
at Home, The Westminster, The Christian
Herald, The Christchurch Press, The Otago
Witness, and last but not least The Greenock
Telegraph, for to this latter paper I am
indebted for having any story to tell.
Through the generosity of its publisher and
Editor it opened its columns not merely to
my articles but the need which they
pictured, and its readers held out such a
helping hand to Malta, that we were able
to start and maintain our club for wounded
soldiers, and on every week-day of the year
provide for them a substantial tea free of
charge. As you read the story you will
learn how others joined in assisting the
work, but we can never forget the one who
gave the first shove off. I am also greatly
indebted to Colonel Ballance for his kind
assistance in procuring for me many of the
medical facts mentioned in this volume.
CHAPTER I
AT SEA IN WAR TIME
WHAT one is not permitted to tell
is, of course, the most interest-
ing part of a voyage in war
time. However, even when that is sub-
tracted there remains enough to give
piquancy to what otherwise is a common-
place experience.
The novelty of travel in these war days
begins at the very start. The familiar
hotel in London was unfamiliar in its inner
aspect. In the hall a pile of soldiers'
accoutrements was the first thing to meet
the eye. Khaki overcoats hung from every
peg in the cloak room, and graceful figures
clad in blue with shoulder strap and star
flitted about the rooms. These were
Canadian nurses who had just arrived and
19
At Sea in War Time
were bound for the front. Very smart
they looked. Their dress seemed to be
fashioned after the pattern of the American
officers' uniform. Most becoming it was,
and there were plenty of stars. So many,
in fact, that they all seemed to be superior
officers, and one wondered where the private
came in. Perhaps in this contingent there
was none, and all these capable-looking
young women were meant to command
instead of obey. A duty for which none
appeared unequal.
The boat train first brought home to us
that we were bound for foreign parts, and
that on the railway platform the pathos of
war eclipsed its glory. Like canny Scots
we had broken the regulations and stuck
by our baggage in these uncertain times.
Only light luggage was supposed to be
taken on this express, and the porter who
stepped forward so eagerly to open the
door of our taxi opened more widely his
eyes. But we had a clear conscience, and
with that one can face even stern officialism.
If there were thirteen pieces of baggage of
20
At Sea in War Time
all sizes we knew that their contents were
not all personal. Many of them were filled
with parcels of generous dimensions for our
brave soldiers in the East. The thoughtful
generosity of friends sent us not empty-
handed away, and it is reassuring to carry
not merely a message of comfort on the lip
but a token of sympathy in the hand.
Thus were we armed, and so red-tapeism
lost its terrors. It was represented by an
official who was prepared to weigh small
baggage, and who looked at the growing
pile on the porter's barrow with dismay.
How we got past him need not be told.
Veteran travellers will guess, others must
learn by experience. I had secured our
porter as an ally and he worked wonders,
and what did not go into the van went into
the carriage. We had gone early and so
chose an empty compartment.
We were not, however, to have it to
ourselves. We had just got ourselves
comfortably ensconced when two Indian
nobles were ushered in. They were dressed
as British officers, and wore khaki turbans,
21
At Sea in War Time
and were returning from the front. Fine
specimens of Indian gentlemen they were,
most courteous in manner and agreeable as
fellow-passengers. There was a third who
joined the others later, and the trio were
an object of interest throughout the voyage.
One felt a thrill of pride in our great Indian
Empire as we looked on these Eastern
princes who had so loyally drawn the sword
in defence of the mother land.
At last we were on board the Malwa, and
our thoughts went at once back to Greenock.
The big ship as she lay in dock seemed too
solid to be pitched about by the waves, but
we had yet to learn the strength of the
ocean. Even the Malwa was to stagger
before the blows of the Atlantic.
Again there was a parting, and this time
it was the last. Khaki-clad figures leaned
over the ship's rail, and on the wharf stood
groups of women. British courage perhaps
reaches its height at such a trying hour.
Small talk, like handy change, was useful
that moment. The big things were behind.
Within the heart was the unutterable,
22
At Sea in War Time
while on the lip was the ready sally. The
women were not less brave than the men.
Though tears were not far away, yet they
were out of sight. Smiles hid them.
One of those insignificant incidents that
sometimes happen relieved the tension.
The gangway had been drawn, and im-
perceptibly the big ship was drifting from
the wharf, the gulf which for some would
never be bridged was already widening.
At that moment a gentleman attempted to
throw a letter ashore. It fluttered in the
air for a moment, and then dropped short
into the water. A rather burly policeman
ran for a grappling iron, and his efforts to
fish up the soaking envelope absorbed
attention. It was a bit of delicate balanc-
ing, and sometimes he would have the
letter almost within reach when it would
drop back into the sea, and a humorous
groan from deck and wharf announced his
failure However he was nothing daunted.
He had taken to heart the story of Bruce
and the spider. Meanwhile the distance
was steadily widening. At last a cheer
23
At Sea in War Time
went up, the voices on board blended for
the last time with those on shore. The
policeman had won ! He was holding the
dripping letter in his hands. Such was
the final parting, and if the whole burlesque
had been planned it could not have served
a better purpose.
Usually one takes a casual glance at one's
stateroom, and then thinks of food. But
this was to be no ordinary voyage. The
last papers put into our hands told of the
sinking of the Elder Dempster liner in the
Channel, by a German submarine, and it
was rumoured that two were lying in wait
for a bigger haul. Therefore an article
that is usually kept out of sight on a top
shelf became a matter of importance. How
soon it would be needed no one could tell.
This was the life-belt. The newer type is
less intricate than the older one ; but even
the method of handling it has to be learned.
So I got the steward to give me a lesson in
the tying of the slip knot, and the right
adjusting of this body belt — information
which I was able to impart later to others.
24
At Sea in War Time
Next in importance was the introduction
to the Captain with which Dr. Caird had so
kindly furnished me. On a P. and O. Liner
the name of its builder is one to conjure
with, and it had immediate results. The
place of honour on a ship is the Captain's
table, but more to me than the honour is
the information which is thus put within
one's reach. The one man who knows
what is going on is the Captain, and news
on shipboard is ten times more valuable
than in the land of newspapers. The
smallest item is as food for a starving man,
and is feverishly devoured by the ravenous
passengers. Especially is this so on a
voyage in war time when there are no
Marconigrams except the naval messages
which are meant for the Captain alone.
Hence it was a delight to find that we
were especially invited to sit at the little
table with the Captain, for the meals are
served at small tables in the dining saloon.
Here also were some most interesting
people, the wife of a British Admiral going
out to see her husband, an officer who had
25
At Sea in War Time
been wounded at the front and who had been
given a Mediterranean command, a judge
of the Supreme Court, and a lady, much
travelled, whose son-in-law held a high
position in the Greek army, and who was
a mine of information on the Balkan
States. The Captain, who was courtesy
itself, and whose conversational art was
to draw your opinion rather than give his
own, chatted and chaffed with a ready wit,
as if German submarines were not lurking
for their prey. He did not, however,
underestimate the danger, and when con-
versation turned to such a topic as life-
belts he gave his opinion seriously.
No sooner had we started than we were
reminded in an ominous way that the
threat of the enemy was a reality. The
boats were got ready and slung out on their
davits. As I watched the Lascars at work,
I realised that the launching of one of
these big life-boats is not a thing which
can be done in a moment. It took fully
an hour before all the boats were made
ready for lowering. Directions were posted
26
At Sea in War Time
up telling the passengers what to do in the
case of being torpedoed. Those in the first
cabin were to meet in the saloon with their
life-belts on, and the boats would be loaded
from the hurricane deck.
While on board every precaution was
being taken against sudden attack in the
Channel itself, vigilance was personified in
the restless destroyers as they raced up
and down splitting the waves with a grace-
ful curl. One of these stopped us at the
mouth of the Thames, and directions were
given there as to our course to the next
patrol.
At last we were under way, with our head
down Channel and our screws driving us at
sixteen to seventeen knots. We passed the
slower going tramps, but soon we were re-
minded that we were not the fastest craft
afloat. Hidden behind a curl of spray a
destroyer came dashing up. It swept along-
side, and a sharp, short command was
shouted through a megaphone. Later its
purport leaked out. We were ordered to
make for a certain English port. Many
27
At Sea in War Time
were the conjectures as to the reason for
this, and now that we know what it was it
is better that it should not be made public.
Suffice it to say that on Sunday forenoon
instead of being well on our way we found
ourselves in harbour. The excitement and
distraction caused by what was taking
place around us caused the Captain to
forgo the usual service. All on board were
on deck and too absorbed in the unusual
scenes to be gathered together in the saloon.
Alongside of us lay a big liner which had
just come in, and it was rumoured that
she had rammed and sunk a German sub-
marine. However, the Captain gave us
later the tale by the right end. The sub-
marine had chased and fired at her but she
had managed to escape.
Again we were off, and soon we saw the
shores of Old England dipping below the
horizon, and we were settling ourselves
down to the usual pastimes of a voyage,
when suddenly the engines ceased, and all
looked with a start towards the sea. A big
wave and behind it two funnels belching
28
At Sea in War Time
smoke showed that another destroyer was
racing towards us. It circled round our
ship, another order was given, and the
Malwa was put about and headed back to
the port we had left.
There was no lack of conversation now,
and conjecture was rife, what did it all
mean ? We counted seven explanations
which were repeated as authoritative ; but
the men on the bridge kept silent. Later,
when we got back to port and learned what
it was, any grumble at the loss of time was
silenced, and all felt happier for the guar-
dian care of the British navy.
Once more we were off with a destroyer
on either side, and it looked as if we were
driving a tandem of spirited steeds. Their
presence reassured us, and though many
slept with their life-belts on their sleep was
undisturbed.
Monday morning found us alone on the
broad seas. There was a general feeling
that danger was past, until at half-past ten
the alarm bell sounded through the ship.
Almost with the first stroke could be heard
29
At Sea in War Time
the tramp of hurrying feet, the men rushing
to their posts at the boats. We seized our
life-belts and along with our fellow-passen-
gers hastened to the saloon. Here an
animated scene presented itself. All had
collected there, and everyone was busy
fastening on their life-belts. What sur-
prised me was that there were so many who
had not learned how to adjust them. The
method when known is simplicity itself,
but it is very easy to make a fatal mistake.
The pathetic touch was added by the sight
of two little children, who had four minia- -
ture life-belts fastened round them, and
who were looking in wonderment at this
apparently new game.
Then the Captain came on the scene. The
alarm had been given to test us and see
what we would do in real danger. He
examined carefully the fastening of each
life-belt and pulled the slip knot to see if
it were tied properly. Then he gave us all
a few directions as to how we were to act
if the alarm should again sound in real
earnest.
30
At Sea in War Time
Such is life at sea in these perilous days.
Its gaiety is not lessened. The deck games
go on as before, but there is a sense of con-
stant preparedness for a sudden emergency,
for the innocent looking waves may hide a
cruel foe. On each deck Lascars are con-
stantly scanning the sea for sight of a peri-
scope, and even the passenger's eyes are
often lifted from book or deck quoits to
cast a furtive glance at some breaking crest,
which for the moment seemed like some-
thing else.
The eeriness of plunging through the sea
in the darkness at seventeen knots an hour
with lights out is one of the sensations of
war time. It was equalled by the un-
canny feeling one experienced in the im-
provised concert-room which had been
erected one night on deck. For, of course,
there must be the usual concert or else cer-
tain charitable funds would be the losers.
Besides, we had more than usual reason
for it on this voyage, for had we not on
board the smallest man and woman in the
world as well as the largest, and surely the
31
At Sea in War Time
tall, energetic man in charge of the troupe
was the best showman that ever lived, so at
least we all thought, including, I feel cer-
tain, the Indian Princes, who forgot their
royalty in their laughter.
The concert hall would have been the
open deck in normal times ; but how care-
fully screened it was now with canvas so
that no chink of light might betray the
passing of the liner. We got that night
what the Australians and New Zealanders
will be enjoying for months to come. The
smallest man and woman had other gifts of
entertainment besides their size, and the
conjurer made one feel that there was no
use passing round the hat, for he seemed to
be able to draw everything imaginable out
of his mouth, even money.
Nor must one forget Jones, the Bluejacket,
who already had become the popular hero
of the voyage, for other reasons which I
cannot narrate. He sang a song and was
cheered to the echo, and when he left the
ship at Gibraltar there was universal sorrow.
I could not help thinking of the contrasts
32
At Sea in War Time
that night. The merry company hidden
under the shelter of the canvas, the anxious
eyes on bridge and deck peering into the
darkness, and somewhere out on the tos-
sing waves, a half human serpent gliding
stealthily along on our track seeking for a
chance to drive home its fatal sting. Such
is life, but I must not stop to philosophise.
Gibraltar in war time wore a sterner
aspect than usual. I had just got out of
my morning bath, and in my dressing gown
stepped on to a quiet corner of the deck to
view the frowning cliff of Britain's greatest
fortress, when I saw the conjurer of the
night before preparing to take a snapshot.
But other eyes were watching, and an
officer laid his hand on the upraised arm
before the click of the shutter sounded. No
photographs are permitted, and indeed the
authorities are not very anxious about
strangers coming ashore. We took a
carozze and paid our respects to the United
Free Church minister stationed there, and
in turn were taken by him to see his church,
and the new stained glass window presented
c 33
At Sea in War Time
by Sir Ian Hamilton. So the short sojourn
quickly passed, and we left with a bird's-
eye- view impression of this guardian citadel.
It will be a daring foe that will ever attempt
to bring down the British flag from that
proud eminence.
The sail along the African coast was one
of the most delightful experiences of the
voyage. We came so near to land, that every
house was visible, and the streets in Algiers
were quite distinct. Then we bethought
ourselves of Malta, and in the grey dawn I
first saw the white cliffs gleaming out of
the haze, with the surf wildly dashing
against their foot. There was a heavy roll
as our ship slowed down and steered for the
narrow entrance to Valletta harbour, not
without danger, for even here the enemy's
submarine had been sighted. Then fol-
lowed a scurrying of hundreds of little
dghaisas, and in one of them, under a mili-
tary helmet, I recognised the well-known
features of a Greenock minister. It was a
delight to hear the kindly tones of Rev.
Donald Campbell's voice. Under his escort
34
At Sea in War Time
we were soon getting a taste of what is to be
our every day experience, a tossing in the
frail but skilfully manipulated dghaisas.
We raced for the shore. Two fellow passen-
gers bound for the Far East had accepted
our invitation to lunch, and they and we
were charmed with the rooms which Mr.
Campbell had so well selected for us.
The Rev. Mr. Primrose, who had just re-
turned from the Dardanelles, joined us also
at lunch. Thrilling were the stories he
told us of the terrible fighting through
which he and our brave Scottish lads had
passed. Our hearts swelled with pride as
we listened to his account, though we have
been greatly saddened by the news of Lieut.-
Commander McKirdy's death. Already I
have come across a number of the Anson
Division lads, but must reserve their stories
to later. We enquired at once for Lieu-
tenant Fraser Brown, but learned that he
had left again for the Front.
Someone remarked to me before leaving
that if I were to see the bestial brutality of
war I could never again preach a war ser-
35
At Sea in War Time
mon. I have seen something of its in-
describable horrors already, too awful to
describe. My heart melted as I stood
by a brave man who was dying alone in a
corner of a hospital, as his eyes glazed, and
his bearded face took on the fixity of death.
I remembered he was somebody's darling,
and here was I a perfect stranger, the only
one with him at the last. All this but
deepens one's indignation at the war and
the miscreants who in their foul passion
have devastated homes and trampled under
foot all that is noblest and best. To-day
as my wife, Mr. Campbell and I stood by
the door of one of the many hospitals here
an ambulance drove up and a wounded
officer was carried on a stretcher into the
building. He had just arrived from the
field of battle, the coat he wore was all
splotched with blood. He had been shot
in the eyes, and the ambulance man told us
that he would never see again. Yet as they
lifted him he made a cheery remark that
caused them to smile. Such is a sample of
the pathos and the pluck war reveals.
36
At Sea in War Time
Already the wounded soldiers are finding
out our room, and the generosity of the
kind friends at home is filling it in the even-
ing hours with tobacco smoke. How these
boys revel in the little touch of home life,
and enjoy their tea ! It would gladden the
hearts of the donors of the gifts we brought
to see how they are appreciated. Mr.
Campbell has dubbed our two waiters
" Henry the First," and " Henry the
Second. " They are ever smiling and ever
ready, and are kept busy bringing hot water
to fill the homely teapot. It is the womanly
touch that is worth more than all a chap-
lain's words of counsel. It is worth the
risk of submarine and heat, and I believe
that the service rendered through the tea-
pot, for the Maltese do not know how to
make good tea, will do as much to com-
fort and help our Scottish and Colonial
soldiers, as the more official work of the
chaplain.
Nothing has touched me so much as the
splendid spirit exhibited by our brave
fellows. It is beyond all words. Not yet
37
At Sea in War Time
have I heard one word of complaint or even
an acknowledgment of pain. But yet it
is all inexpressibly terrible. I must reserve
for another occasion the thrilling stories
which already I am beginning to hear, and
a description of this thoroughly eastern
town which interests at every point. The
f aldetta hooded women, the straggling goats
who seem to have a right-of-way on the
busiest streets and pavements, the carozze
men who dog your steps on the chance of
a sixpenny fare, the swift dghaisas as they
race across the heaving waves, for the waters
round Malta never seem at rest, all give an
air of novelty to surroundings that in them-
selves charm by their brilliant contrasts of
colour. Through this maze of moving
humanity passes the well-known figure of
the Gaelic United Free Church minister of
Greenock ; though his people might
scarcely recognise their minister under the
shade of his big helmet, and as I watch him
I feel that Mr. Campbell is a born chaplain.
There is not a Greenock lad in Malta whose
heart has not been warmed by his sym-
38
At Sea in War Time
pathetic grasp and words, and not a ward
he passes through where a smile is not left
on the soldiers' faces through his ready if
pawky humour. As I write I seem to hear
his voice as he took me on my first rounds,
and said on entering each ward, " Are
there any Greenock or Scotch lads here ? "
and there would come an answer in perhaps
a cockney voice — " Yes, sir, you'll find un
in the heighth bed," and sure enough there
is a face already smiling its welcome at the
sound of a Scottish voice.
39
CHAPTER II
MALTA HOSPITALS
THE silence of Valletta in war time
is what impresses the visitor.
Not that it is silent. The cries
of street vendors, and all the ordinary
noises of a congested town added to the
voluble talk of its inhabitants make
sound enough ; but even that babble is as
silence compared with what Valletta used
to be. The bells have stopped, and the
world has not come to an end. From the
vigour with which the hundreds of them
used to be beaten from one quarter of an
hour to the other, it seemed as if the place
were making a frantic effort to avert some
impending doom, and in the mind of the
peasant this thought was not far away.
The effort has ceased, and the heavens have
not fallen.
40
Malta Hospitals
THE SILENCED BELLS
Napoleon tried to silence the bells of
Malta but he failed. A British medical
officer has thus accomplished what the
great Emperor could not do. Colonel Bal-
lance, with the sympathy of a true surgeon
for the thousands under his charge, had
the matter of the bells brought before His
Grace the Archbishop of Malta. His Grace,
with his usual readiness to assist all work
for the wounded, ordered the bells to cease,
and so there was silence. A great debt of
gratitude is due to the head of the Roman
Catholic Church for his courageous and
generously minded act, and also for the
splendid lead he has given his people at
this time in all patriotic service. Not the
least of Scotland's gifts to Malta has been
its archbishop.
But it is of the hospitals I wish to speak,
where so many wounded are finding a
temporary home. Malta has assumed the
role of nurse, and her breakwaters seem like
arms stretched out to receive her burden of
41
Malta Hospitals
suffering. Once the hospital ship has
passed within their shelter the rolling
ceases, and the wounded feel that they
have reached a haven of rest.
Quietly big barges come alongside, and
almost tenderly the steam cranes lower the
stretchers, swinging them gently into their
places. Thus they are brought ashore.
Valletta hospital is the one that is nearest
and most easily reached, and it is being
made a sorting base. It is one of the old
buildings in the town, and has been a
hospital for generations. Low-lying, one
might at first think it unsuitable as a health
resort. Yet once inside its thick, ancient
walls, and you feel as if you had passed
beyond the reach of the sun. The very
solidness of the old masonry acts like a
refrigerator, and within there is coolness.
Here is said to be one of the biggest
wards in the world, with its two hundred
beds, and it is a touching sight to look down
its great length and see every cot occupied.
Here are many of the dangerous cases
which it would be unwise to move farther.
42
Malta Hospitals
Nurses, orderlies, Boy Scouts move quietly
about. The latter are employed to run
any odd errands for the men, to post their
letters, and bring them magazines. Very
useful and smart these Maltese lads are.
A big courtyard affords a shady lounge for
the convalescent, and once a week a
concert is held there. A well staffed,
thoroughly equipped hospital is the verdict
of the visitor. Worthy of its ancient pedi-
gree, it still ministers to the wounded as in
the days of the old knights.
FULL OF ROYAL SCOTS
Across the harbour on a height which
the breezes fan stands the hospital of Cot-
tonera. It is not too big, and its awning-
shaded verandahs are full just now with men
of two battalions of the Royal Scots If an
interesting view is a tonic the inmates do
not lack that stimulus. There are some
trees in the foreground, and the touch of
green in the constant glare of white sand
and stone is soothing to the eye. Beyond,
the town slopes down to one of the numer-
43
Malta Hospitals
cms bays that open out into the grand
harbour. Skimming its surface like flies
are the restless dghaisas, which flit from
shore to shore, or swarm round some newly-
arrived liner. Across on the farther shore
are tiers of white buildings too dazzling to
look at, where Valletta climbs its rocky
heights, that are topped by ancient stone
bastions. It is all very picturesque, and
the view must often cause the wounded
men to forget their own suffering.
NAVAL DIGNITY
Across another creek or bay from Cot-
tonera, proudly isolated on its own penin-
sula is Bighi Hospital. There is a seclu-
siveness about its position in keeping with
its character. It is naval, and is conscious
of all the dignity that belongs to the first
service. It has more to recommend it than
dignity, and any visitor would give it a
first place amongst the Malta hospitals.
There is a roominess about it that suits
the man accustomed to the broad seas.
Besides, it stands on a promontory that
44
Malta Hospitals
catches the first breezes from the Mediter-
ranean. Fortunate is the patient who finds
himself domiciled here. From Deputy-
Surgeon-General Lawrence Smith down to
the latest arrived nurse there is the con-
sciousness of great traditions that have to
be maintained, and the frank kindliness of
the deck is repeated in the ward, as is also
the discipline.
We recross back to Valletta and its heat,
and visit now Floriana Hospital that gets
the sun. You cannot reach it without
having first to run the gauntlet of sun-
stroke, for somehow the sun seems to have
the range of this blistering spot, and per-
haps that is why it has earned so flowery
a name !
Here are huge blocks of buildings. Once
inside you forget, of course, their external
monotony of design, and you are not
tempted to look out except through coloured
glasses. Yet here the work of healing goes
steadily on, and men fight flies instead of
Turks.
Floriana has this advantage, however,
45
Malta Hospitals
that when the men begin to move about
they are at the centre of things. The
recreation halls opened for their benefit in
the town are at their door, and so as con-
valescents they have a better time than
others.
Two miles farther out the hot dusty car
track is Hamrun Hospital, an inspection
of which is well worth the annoyance of
getting there. It must be a delight to a
doctor's heart. It recalls to mind the
story of a bride. She was being con-
gratulated by her friends, and they all
used the same adjective about her husband
calling him a model man. In her curiosity
to learn the exact meaning of the word she
consulted a dictionary and discovered that
model was a " small imitation of the real
article/*
THE GROPING HAND
Hamrun is small, but a model. Of
course, it is quite new, and, therefore,
might be expected to have all the latest
improvements. It exhales an atmosphere
46
Malta Hospitals
of up-to-dateness. Here all eye cases are
being sent. In one of its wards I witnessed
a pathetic scene. As I passed along I saw
a hand groping above the blankets. It
belonged to a patient whose eyes were
shaded. I guessed its meaning. It was
feeling for sympathy. The man was suffer-
ing, and he craved for the human touch.
I put out my hand, and in a moment his
closed round it and in the tremulous pulse-
beat I read a telepathic message of comfort
and relief. He was blind, and for the time
speechless, all communication from the
outside world was therefore by touch, and
somehow in the short time I held his hand
I felt that we were able to say quite a lot
to each other, perhaps more to the point
than if the thoughts had been put into
words. I think he knew I was a chaplain,
and that I was trying to convey the great
truth, " The Eternal God is my refuge and
underneath are the everlasting arms."
Come now to the largest hospital on the
island. We descend first of all to the
bowels of the earth by a sloping tunnel, and
47
Malta Hospitals
there we find a train waiting. With much
puffing and waste of coal dust we emerge
at last into the open, and get a view of
Malta country life in the patches of land
that are still unbuilt. It is like a congested
Palestine. These little fields are all walled
in, and have their watch tower to guard
against thieves. Truly, a country like an
individual carries its character in its face !
Here, too, we see the Biblical methods of
threshing, the oxen treading out the corn,
and the Maltese unwillingness to accept its
spirit, for the animals are all muzzled ! We
pass the old town of Citta Vecchia, which
invites inspection and makes a good living
on its historic past. But as it is not a
guide-book I am writing, we will turn a
deaf ear to the importunities of the army of
guides on the platform who extol the
wonders of catacomb and church. Another
tunnel, and we have completed our eight
miles by rail and reached the terminus,
and see on a height before us block upon
block of newly-built buildings. This is
Imtarfa Hospital, the largest on the island.
48
sf
a
3 3
Malta Hospitals
The older part was originally barracks, now
it has been greatly added to, and we have
an array of wards capable of holding
1,200 patients. Its isolation and its eleva-
tion have determined its scope. Thither
are being sent infectious diseases and en-
teric cases. A glance at the mosquito
netted beds tells its own tale, for flies are
quick to diagnose certain fevers, and try
to get a chance of digging into the hot skin
and carrying away the infection to inject
into some healthy victim.
WHEN THE CRUTCHES ARE DISCARDED
It is a far cry from here to St. Andrew's
Hospital, which is second in size. Our best
way is to face the engine soot again and
take the train back to Valletta, and cross in
one of the ferry boats to Sliema, and drive
from there along a hilly road for about three
miles. It is crowded just now with men
in khaki. They get the princely allowance
of 2s. a week, and therefore cannot afford
to hire a carozze unless they club together,
D 49
Malta Hospitals
which they often do. But they are ex-
periencing a new-found pleasure in the use
of their limbs. For a man who did not
know whether he would ever be able to
walk again, and has had a taste of crutches,
even a trudge in the heat has indescribable
attractions. To feel that his limbs are all
there and working is worth perspiring for.
These are the men who have reached the
last stage of their several fiittings in Malta,
and are now at the Convalescent Camp, just
above St. Andrew's, christened by the
Governor the other day " All Saints/'
Their next move will be the Dardanelles
once more, and we will be kind enough to
wish that we may never see them back
again in Malta !
We have not time to stop at St. George's
Hospital, which we pass on the way, and
which has the distinction or disqualification
of being worked without women. The first
time I passed through its wards I felt that
there was something lacking. The men of
the R.A.M.C. may know their business, and
make excellent nurses, but there is truth in
5°
Malta Hospitals
the complaint one of the wounded made to
my wife in a confidential moment.
" NO ONE TO TUCK YOU IN "
" There is no one to tuck you in and say
good-night/' he remarked wistfully.
I think St. George's must hold out no
longer, but haul down the benedict flag,
and welcome the sisters. Since writing
the above this has been done.
St. Andrew's also stands on a hill, and
has a magnificent set of buildings. If it
is smaller than Imtarfa it can only be by a
few beds, and it excels in its imposing
architecture.
In this hospital there is one accomplished
little nurse to whom I have quite lost my
heart. Do not say it is shocking until you
hear the end of the tale. There is always
an end to everything, and sometimes very
different from the beginning. So one
should reserve judgment. I am sure if
you could see her you would all admire her
just as much as I do, especially the boys
Malta Hospitals
and girls. She is very perky — yes, that is
the right adjective — and a great favourite
with the men, though with the cooler
weather her duties will not be so urgent.
I must confess that when I discovered her
I found reasons for going back to visit her
hospital more than some others. She is
doing her bit, only she spells it with an
added " e," and the men all try to woo her
to their bedside. She cocks her little head
and looks at them so wisely, though I must
admit there is a little cupboard love in her
attentions, and she has an eye for some-
thing else — something that is a nuisance to
them and a delight to her. She perches
herself on the edge of the bed, then hops on
to the patient's arm, and there is a fly less
to bother. There, I have given my secret
away. She is a little bird called the fly-
catcher, and right zealously does she do her
bite.
But even these great hospitals have
overflowed their limits. To the back long
rows of wooden huts have quickly risen.
In fact they look like a little village, in
52
Malta Hospitals
America they would certainly be dignified
with the title of town, if not of city. They
bear the appropriate name of the apostle
who was the pioneer in Malta of the healing
art, St. Paul. His shadow is cast every-
where in this island, but surely nowhere
does it fall with greater fitness than in the
wards where men and women try to undo
with skill and tenderness the havoc of the
battle-field.
Farther up, cresting the height with its
snowy canvas, is St. David's camp. The
big marquee erected by the Guild of the
United Free Church of Scotland towers in
the centre like a mediaeval castle above the
clustering roofs of the town it shelters.
Here the fresh air cure is united with the
art of the surgeon, for a breeze seems always
to fan these streets of tents, and when
Valletta is in liquidation with the heat St.
David's has still to its credit a breath of
air !
Now we will return, for All Saints' Camp
does not concern us at present. It is not
a hospital. At Spinola we stop. We enter
53
Malta Hospitals
its scattered encampment with some hesi-
tancy, for it has changed its character so
often that we are in doubt whether to
reckon it a hospital or not. But if we have
arrived at the right time, we will find many
of its tents filled, not merely with the men
who have been cured and who are waiting
to rejoin their regiments, but with others
just beginning the process.
If I were giving a prize for the most
artistically laid out camps I would make
a short leet of St. Patrick's and St. David's,
and then toss up for the choice. I have
seen both emerge from their swaddling
clothes of mud, and blossom into gardens
with their tents dotted amongst the rich
bloom of flowers, and it has seemed like
one of the conjuring tricks of the East.
Here the Y.M.C.A., which has done so
much for Malta under the superintendence
of Mr. Wheeler, has erected a large wooden
hall, and men can listen there to concert
or lecture without being disturbed by the
flapping of canvas.
But we must hurry on, if we are to have
54
Malta Hospitals
even a bird's-eye view of the scenes round
which are woven the stories of these pages.
St. John's hospital is an imposing building.
It was the newest school in Sliema, and one
envies the children who will have such de-
lightful classrooms. I asked our chaplain
there, the Rev. William Cowan, what was
distinctive about it, and he replied the
desire on the part of its patients to come
back to it again. That certainly is a good
certificate of character for any hospital,
though I do not think that it is the only
one in Malta that has earned this com-
pliment.
We have scarcely time to do more than
look in at the little hospital of St. Ignatius,
which is hidden away in the suburbs of
Sliema. To pass into its cool corridors on
a burning day is refreshing for the visitor,
and what must it be for the patient ! The
wards here with their old-fashioned thick
walls have managed to shut out the sun,
and in Malta the most highly appreciated
blessing is shade. Someone has likened life
here in summer to sitting on a red-hot
55
Malta Hospitals
brick, that is gradually getting hotter. So
you can imagine that the cool spots are
little heavens, and St. Ignatius is one of
them. Perhaps its patients may not agree
with me, but then they do not know what
the other hospitals are like, and it is only
by contrast that you can judge.
OUTWITTING THE GUARD
Forrest Hospital stands on a hill, and its
discipline is pretty strict. One day an
Australian patient, to whom a rule was like
a red rag, determined to go out without
permission, but naturally he was stopped
by the guard at the gate. He was not to
be baulked, and he said so ; but the guard
only smiled. However, he laughs best
who laughs last. The Colonial got twenty
others of his fellow-countrymen to
" bunch " as they call it and to make a
rush through the open gate. It was only a
lark and they wheeled round and came back,
but not the whole twenty ; one had slipped
away unobserved, the instigator of the plot !
56
Malta Hospitals
Next we come to Tigne. Its base is sea-
washed, and the breezes burdened with the
brine ought to be a tonic to its inmates.
Its high blocks almost depress with their
monotony, and when you know that they
are full to overflowing with suffering
humanity, the heart of the visitor sinks.
Manoel is a little world by itself. On a
jutting peninsula, with only a bridge as a
neck, it is cut off from the rest of the island.
Isolation determines its character, for here
one finds many infectious cases.
I have not yet spoken of St. Elmo or
Baviere Hospitals; both have the attrac-
tion of an interesting seascape. In the
former is a soldier who has to undergo
to-day his eighteenth operation. He was
quite cheery last night, and spoke of the
operating theatre as a matter of course.
One can get accustomed to almost anything!
Now I have reached the limits of my
chapter before I have got to the end of my
story ; but I have tried to give you a
passing snapshot of the principal hospitals
of the island, and in so far as they have
57
Malta Hospitals
distinctive characteristics to emphasise
such. May you never test the accuracy
of my sketch by experience. If you do,
you will say that half has not been told of
the comfort and the kindness enjoyed by
our wounded in the Malta Hospitals.
The Blue Sisters' Hospital must not be
forgotten. Of it many an officer has
grateful memories. From its balcony a
magnificent panorama stretched itself of
distant town, and sun-lit waters, and stone-
fenced fields. Through its cool corridors
the Sisters were ever flitting in their
picturesque garb with noiseless steps on
their errand of mercy.
In a word one might sum up the general
scheme that governed the arrangements
of the hospitals in Malta.
First there were those of which I have
spoken in this chapter. These were for
the more serious cases. Then there were
the Hospital Camps, a new feature, which
I think had never been tried before, where
the patients were housed under canvas
instead of in a building. These have
58
Malta Hospitals
proved most successful. Next were the Con-
valescent Camps, of which I will speak
more fully later. To one of these the
recovering patient was sent on quitting
hospital. Last of all was the Concentration
Camp, or stepping-off place. Here the
man who had passed through the other
stages was once more in full regimentals,
and awaited a ship to take him back to the
front.
59
CHAPTER III
A SAD MARCH PAST
IT is not from the saluting flag that I
am going to ask you to view the
march past of our brave soldiers,
but from the hospital ward. They come in
an endless procession, halt maybe for days
or weeks, and then pass out. Some go to
rejoin the colours, and step out again
briskly to the sound of the drum ; some
with a smile on their wan faces go home ;
others are carried out to their " long home."
Under the shady trees of Pieta there are
many new-made graves, and the chaplain
stops on his return from another funeral
beside a little plot and thinks of a boyish
face that had looked up at his so wistfully
and frankly from the pillow.
" He was a brave lad," he murmurs to
60
A Sad March Past
himself ; " and it did me good to know
him."
That face is looking into some other heart
far away, and its smile brings a sweet ache,
and the longing to see the lonely grave at
which the unknown chaplain is the only
mourner.
THE BEGINNING OF THE PROCESSION
The march past first comes into view at
the harbour mouth. Heaving slightly on
the swell outside is a stately ship, with a
big red cross painted on her side.
As she passes into the still waters behind
the breakwater the wearied sufferers on
board feel a soothing stillness. The engines
have stopped, and the swinging has ceased.
There is no noisy bustle about the arrival of
this ship, even the crowds of dghaisas keep
away. Then quietly great barges movealong-
side, cranes creak, and a strange burden
rises from the deck of the ship, is swung
over the side, and lowered into the waiting
barge. It is a stretcher with a motionless
61
A Sad March Past
form upon it. From under the light cover-
ing two feet are visible at one end, and a
head, possibly bandaged, at the other.
Never did the arm of steel handle its burden
more gently. A mother's hands could not
lay her babe to rest in its cradle more ten-
derly than does the unconscious crane place
its living weight in the closely packed line
of stretchers on the barge's deck. Then
comes the journey ashore. Rows of ambu-
lance waggons are waiting, but the Malta
streets were not made for wounded, and
many a sharp pang there must be ere the
shelter of the cool hospital ward is reached.
" It was like heaven to get here/' mur-
mured one wounded man to me. Some
sleep actually for days after their arrival,
and " Nature's sweet restorer " is their
best nurse.
How quickly the wards fill up : For the
usual salutation at breakfast is, "I see
there is another ship in to-day from the
Dardanelles."
Its passengers have now become the
chaplain's parishioners.
62
A Sad March Past
PARISHIONERS
As the chaplain comes quietly along the
rows of beds to see the new arrivals he is
impressed with the stillness of the ward, a
cooling peace pervades it. There is suffer-
ing, but it is scarcely articulate. How
brave our heroes are ! If all Britain's
sons are of the same stuff we are un-
conquerable.
Thanks to the generosity of Greenock
friends, and the kindness of the Greenock
Telegraph, both Mr. Campbell and myself
are supplied with a welcome gift for each
sufferer ; something that will enable him to
withdraw his thoughts from his pain in the
shape of interesting magazines or papers.
Until they came there was a dearth of any-
thing to read, especially in the hospitals
outside Valletta.
The coming of them perhaps deserves a
notice. Having seen with ^ my own eyes
the growing heap on the floor of the Tele-
graph Office before I left Greenock, I was
able to reassure my friends that the. pro-
63
A Sad March Past
mised help would be ample when it would
arrive ; but in Malta at present that is a
matter of great uncertainty. Letters come
in weeks late, and one may be glad to get
them then. The great art of officialdom is
to hand an importunate enquirer on to
somebody else. It reminds me of a card
game I used to play called " The Old Maid."
The successful player was the one who
could best pass on to his neighbour the fatal
card.
At last we got word that in some part of
the naval dockyard there were parcels which
were not munitions. We hired a conveyance
and started off in pursuit. A casual street
accident revealed the Gaelic minister in a
new light, as I saw him holding down the
head of a horse which had fallen. I managed
to get a wound in my thumb, which made
my friend remark that he did not know I
had such a lot of good blood in my veins
before. In this climate wounds bleed pro-
fusely. A handy ambulance man tied me
up, and we were off again in search of the
Greenock bundles. We might not have
64
A Sad March Past
found them had it not been for a lucky
encounter which verified the text, " Cast
thy bread upon the waters and it will
return unto thee after many days." In one
of the offices we entered was a corporal who
had tasted of our teapot, and at once he put
himself and everybody else about to get on
the right trail. At last, after another
drive, we reached a store-room, and there
our hearts were delighted to see facing us
bundle upon bundle of well-packed litera-
ture. It took six men to carry them to our
conveyance, and though we paid our man
two and a half times more than we had
bargained with him for, he left us with a
last reproachful look at the pile of parcels.
The fact that it was mostly " light " litera-
ture did not affect its weight !
However, now, thanks to Greenock gene-
rosity, we are well equipped for our work,
and we never start our visiting without
taking a large bag well packed with maga-
zines and Testaments. The latter are
always welcomed, for most of the wounded
have lost theirs, and the men who have
E 65
A Sad March Past
faced death and barely escaped from it
have a hunger for " The Word of Life."
HUMOUR IN THE WARD
Occasionally the sad work is lightened by
a ray of humour. Mr. Campbell, going
through one of his hospitals recently, came
on a man who seemed to be suffering
severely.
" Can I do anything for you ? " he asked
in a sympathetic voice as he bent over
him.
" There is one thing I would like," an-
swered the soldier.
" What is that ? " was the ready answer.
" I wonder if you could tell me where I
could get an orange ? "
" Oh," interrupted the generous-hearted
chaplain, " leave that to me, I will find
some for you."
As he left he did not notice the look of
mystification on the man's face. Now, the
orange season is past in Malta, and though
a few months ago there was a super-
66
A Sad March Past
abundance of them, at present it is the
most difficult of fruits to obtain. How-
ever, difficulty seems to add zest to my col-
league, and certainly he never spares him-
self. There was a lady at whose house he
had been in the country, and he had seen
her orange groves — and remembered. To
her he hastened with his story of the poor
soldier who was suffering, and who had
taken such a craving for an orange. Most
kindly she sent to her gardens to have her
trees searched for the last orange of summer.
There was more than one discovered, and
Mr. Campbell returned next day to the
hospital with a parcel of generous dimen-
sions, and a glad heart. He had secured
"the water from the well of Bethlehem,"
not without effort, and he was anticipating
the glad look of joy on the orange-hungry
man's face.
When he reached his bedside he was sur-
prised at another kind of look, and all the
lame and limp in the ward had gathered
within earshot at Mr. Campbell's approach.
There was unmistakably a smile lurking
67
A Sad March Past
about their mouths, which might do them
as much good as oranges.
" Here they are/' said the chaplain en-
thusiastically as he laid his burden on the
bed.
" Did you not get my letter ? " asked
the wounded soldier.
" No," was the surprised reply. Evi-
dently there was something that needed an
explanation.
" I wrote you immediately after you
left. I saw afterwards that you had mis-
understood my meaning/' remarked the
sufferer.
It was now the chaplain's turn to look
mystified.
" Your letter has not reached me yet/'
he said.
Meanwhile the oranges were lying neg-
lected. It seemed as if the Bible story of
the dearly secured water, which was un-
used, was going to be repeated.
" What I wished to ask for," said the man
with a smile, " was not oranges, but an
Orange Lodge."
68
A Sad March Past
At this there was a general ripple of
laughter.
" Well, perhaps these oranges may do
you more good, and be less exciting/' re-
sponded the chaplain, as he handed over
the fruit to be enjoyed along with the
joke.
Here is another story which I hope all
Presbyterians will live up to, and I trust
other denominations will pardon.
I was going my rounds, and in one ward
I asked,
" Are there any Presbyterians here ? "
" Yes," came the answer from a bed.
" The man opposite me is one." As he
spoke the wounded soldier pointed to a
vacant cot. Its occupant was evidently
out.
I went over and read the name on the
card.
" You are mistaken," I answered, " this
is a C.O.E. man."
' Well, I thought he was a Presbyterian,
because he is always reading his Bible."
69
A Sad March Past
THE CRUTCH WALK
I call it this, for it describes the third
stage in the march past. Now we see the
men who are becoming convalescent. They
can get beyond the ward, some on the arms
of their companions, some on their own feet,
and some on crutches. When they get the
length of the streets where are they to
go ? This is a most important question,
for temptation lurks at every corner, and
somehow at the most critical point the mili-
tary authorities seem to think that their
special care terminates, except for certain
orders, which, alas, are too easily evaded.
The need was so urgent that Mr. Camp-
bell and I felt that something must be done.
Of course the people in Malta are very kind
to the wounded. They are given theatre
entertainments, and sometimes garden
parties, but what the poor fellows need to
keep them straight is a home and a kindly
Christian atmosphere.
So we got our hall, and had it opened with
a tea. Mrs. Mackinnon takes charge of
70
A Sad March Past
this, and it occupies her whole time. In
the forenoon she is busy preparing cool
drinks — lemon squash — which are given
gratis to the thirsty men, for everyone has
a thirst here. At 2 p.m. the hall is opened,
and from then until 7 p.m. there is a con-
stant stream in and out of the halt and
lame. Already the tables are loaded with
the magazines and papers sent from Green-
ock* We have provided writing material
and many a mother's heart at home will
be gladdened because her son found the
cool hall with its ink and pens. Also there
is a piano, and it is wonderful how musical
the soldiers are. Tea is served free to all,
and fifty loaves a day are sliced and spread
with butter and jam and given to our
wounded without charge. But I shall refer
more fully to this club in a subsequent
chapter.
THE OUTWARD BOUND
Crutches have now been flung aside, and
we hear the brisk beat of a drum. A
A Sad March Past
column of men in khaki is leaving for the
front. Malta has done its work and left
pleasant memories. We follow them to
the harbour, and witness another March
Past that thrills us with pride. Transport
after transport, laden with troops, rest for
a few hours in the shelter of these waters
and then move on towards the sound of
the guns.
Let us pause on the Barracca, and look
down on this other empire of Britain, her
domain of the sea. Perhaps nowhere is it
seen to better advantage. I do not mean
the mere waste of waters, for from deck and
headland their defiant strength, which
human brain and muscle have curbed,
may be viewed with far grander effect ;
but I speak of a world of greater interest,
which has its home on the deep — a race of
men liveried in woollen jersey, oil-skin,
brass buttons, and gilded braid.
There in the centre of the harbour
swings at anchor an ugly, dull-coloured
mass of floating steel. It is a British
cruiser. Her three short, black funnels,
72
A Sad March Past
the bores of her long guns pointing fore
and aft, make a sombre silhouette against
the glittering sea. Like a stinging reptile
of the ocean, she crouches in the waves ;
or rather, like a coffin, in a garden of flowers,
she jars on the senses. Death, cruel,
horrid, is suggested by her dusky sides,
save for one mast with its cross-spar.
Yet, to-day, there is a human touch about
her ; grotesque it may be, but welcome,
if not to the eye, at least to the heart —
she has her washing out : Ribbon lines
of white relieve the sternness of her
bows.
Gliding out into the blaze of sunshine is
a sight that rouses within one the spirit
of one's ancestors. The tall, tapering masts
of a full-rigged ship make a stately outline
against the sky ; from a network of ropes
and tackle her yards stretch gracefully out
until, as silently, majestically she moves
outward behind the puffing tug, you in-
stinctively call her " Queen of the Sea."
Like a phantom of the past she flits noise-
lessly amidst that scene of belching funnels
73
A Sad March Past
and churning screws, and you appreciate
the poetic as well as the heroic touch in
the time-worn title, " The wooden walls of
Old England."
But the harbour invites a closer in-
spection.
A chaplain's work is full of variety and
opportunity if he is quick to seize it. As
an illustration of this let me give you a
glimpse of the last two days, and you will
see how it was the unexpected opportu-
nity that was the most fruitful of interest
and results.
Mr. Campbell and myself started in the
morning in our dghaisa to visit a fortress
and hospital some distance away. As we
crossed the harbour my friend's quick eye
detected the presence of a new steamer lying
at anchor, the Baron Ardrossan.
" Let us see if there are any Scots on
board/' remarked my indefatigable com-
panion.
We turned our boat in and alongside.
Red-tape demands passes for almost every-
thing here, and certainly for boarding a
74
A Sad March Past
Government ship. But those who know
Mr. Campbell will agree that he carries his
certificate in his open kindly face, and when
that is united with a strong will, it will be
readily understood that the officer at the
deck end of the rope ladder yielded to our
sudden assault. Mr. Campbell's heart was
delighted when he heard that there were
eighteen Gaelic speaking sailors on board.
They were at a meal in the fo'c'sle at that
moment, and thither we went in a blazing
heat that made the iron deck seem like
burning coals under our soles.
I never saw such a look of astonishment
on men's faces before as when we put our
heads into the close mess-room. But it was
intensified when Mr. Campbell uttered some
magic words in Gaelic. The knives and
forks literally dropped out of the crew's
hands in their amazement, and I saw a
wondering smile break over their bearded
and begrimed faces.
Of course I could only be a spectator, but
I saw that my friend held them from the
start. What he was saying I did not
75
A Sad March Past
understand, only at intervals I saw them
lift their hands in answer to some question.
We always carry some literature with us,
for which we are most grateful to our
Greenock friends and others. The ship
was sailing at 4 p.m., but we promised to be
back again at 3 p.m. and hold a service.
About our real errand that day, which
has become side-issued in this story, and
about the stirring tales told us by the men
fresh from the blood-stained fields of the
Dardanelles I must speak again. It was
the unexpected incident that left on us the
deepest impression.
After lunch, accompanied by Mrs. Mac-
kinnon, the three of us set out. Again we
boarded the Baron Ardrossan and were re-
ceived most courteously by the captain and
chief officer. Seats were arranged on the
bridge deck, and the Highlanders were
called there. A deck chair was provided
for Mrs. Mackinnon, and the service began.
I have been at many impressive religious
meetings, but few have equalled this in
uniqueness of feeling. The very strange-
76
A Sad March Past
ness of it appealed to the men themselves.
They never had had a religious service
before on board. All around sounded the
creaking of cranes and the puffing of donkey
engines with the confused noises of a ship
preparing to get under way. Suddenly
the unaccustomed strain in such a place
began to penetrate the din and rise above
it. It was the melody of a Gaelic psalm
to the tune of Kilmarnock. I saw the
" Sassenachs " on the deck stop in their
work and look up in amazement, and well
they might, as they listened to those
eighteen men singing praise to God. A
very rough looking lot a casual spectator
might say. They had just been summoned
from their work and came as they were.
Some were barefooted, all were perspiring
and begrimed ; but to Him who searcheth
the heart there must have been something
heavenly in that song, that wafted its
message of faith from the very midst of
death-dealing explosives.
Then came the prayer. I noticed that
most of the men stood during it, betokening
77
A Sad March Past
the land from which they came. They
were from Lewis. It seemed to me that as
the pastor led those men near to God in
their mother tongue a hush crept over
the ship. Certainly the hoarse shouting
and coarse words appeared to lessen. Some-
how men felt that God was being wor-
shipped there. The minister told me the
text of his address afterwards. It dealt
with the sheepfold and the Gate. I saw its
impression in the glistening of more than
one eye and the moistening of more than
one cheek.
The captain and chief officer showed us
every kindness. Perhaps the secret of it
was in the way the commander spoke of his
men.
" They are a splendid set of good living
fellows/' he said, and maybe that was why
even at a busy moment he was willing to
let them have that short time of spiritual
strengthening.
On reaching home that evening another
surprise awaited us. Our own boys, as we
call the Greenock lads of the Argyll and
78
A Sad March Past
Sutherland Highlanders, had arrived on a
transport on their way to the Dardanelles.
Some of the officers dined with us that night
at our hotel, and next morning Mr. Camp-
bell and I set out to visit the men.
There was a large number from our own
congregations, as well as from the other
churches in Greenock. What hearty hand-
shaking we had as we recognised the
familiar faces under the unfamiliar helmets.
Friends at home had not sent us away with
an empty purse, and we thought that this
was an occasion for emptying it a little.
So we invested in chocolate and cigarettes
until the errand boy who took our parcels
to the boat could not comfortably carry
any more. Greenock was reaching out her
hands through us in farewell to her brave
sons.
We held a service for the men in their
mess-room, and I gave a short address, and
were it not for the unfamiliar surroundings
I might have thought myself at home as I
looked into the faces of my own members.
It was difficult to tear ourselves away, and
79
A Sad March Past
our hearts went with the brave lads whom
we would fain have accompanied if chap-
lain's committees would only take into
account personal ties.
We could not wait to see them sail, as
duties summoned us to a hospital eight
miles distant, but Mrs. Mackinnon kept
vigil by the harbour, and waved them an
adieu from the " old friends at home " as
later in the afternoon they steamed out to
the unknown.
The work here was the zest of ready re-
sults. Just before I came there was a week
of interesting meetings, in which Mr. Camp-
bell and Mr. Sim took a leading part,
assisted by some of the Anglican chaplains.
At the week-night services in one of the
hospitals there were almost a hundred men
present, and fifty-one professed a change of
life. Facing death has brought eternal
realities near, and never have I seen men
more eager for the preaching of the Gospel
or the reception of Christian literature.
Many are here to-day and within the week
may be dead on the field of battle.
80
A Sad March Past
THE FAREWELL
It has its bright and its sad side. One
day on going into a ward you meet a
specially cheery face.
" I am going home to-morrow, sir," says
the lad, who cannot hide his j oy . " There is
a hospital ship in, and I am to be sent with
it."
He is the envied of all. " Going home."
How sweetly the words sound ! They have
a sad echo, however. There is another
" going home," when for the last time the
brave soldier follows the drum, only now it
is muffled. This at first is one of the
hardest duties of a chaplain, and I will
confess my eyes dimmed with tears as I
committed my first coffin to a soldier's
grave. It was that of a young officer,
Lieutenant Leggat of the 7th Scottish
Rifles. The hour was sunset, and I stood
robed at the cemetery gate.
Nearer and nearer came the sound of
muffled drums. Five coffins were borne in
that last march to the " long home."
F 81
A Sad March Past
There were two officers and three privates.
The former had each a separate grave.
Slowly, reverently were the bodies lifted
from the gun carriages. In this land of
ceremony even the Presbyterian burial adds
a little to its stern simplicity, and I walked
before the coffin reading passages of Scrip-
ture, until we reached the grave. Two
brother officers and one private stood beside
me as the mourners. Then, when all wras
over, the firing party awakened the evening
stillness with their solemn shots. Silence
followed for a moment, then on a silver
trumpet rang out the notes of "The Last
Post/' and to the fancy they seemed to
blend with the blast of the angel trumpet
which will awake the sleeper from the tomb.
At the close I thought I was alone, for I
stood looking into the grave trying to do
for the unknown sorrowing hearts at home
the sad service they were denied. Sud-
denly my reverie was interrupted ; the
private had spoken. He too was left alone
beside me, and his voice shook with
emotion.
82
A Sad March Past
" He was my officer," was all he could say.
Yet what a testimony to the British
Army, what an assurance of victory in these
words.
Perhaps I can best close this chapter by
quoting the lines written by one of our
chaplains here, the Rev. William Cowan
of Banchory, which he entitles :
A MILITARY FUNERAL
With sound of plaintive brass, and deep-toned drum,
And Britain's banner for a funeral pall,
And measured tread of men whose footsteps fall
In time with that sad minstrelsy, they come
And carry to its narrow earthly home
The coffin' d clay of one they late did call
Comrade or friend, nor deemed of him that all
Could lie beneath that empty helmet's dome.
Beside the grave with arms reversed they stand,
While prayers are offered, motionless until,
Obedient to the word of sharp command,
They wake the echoes from the distant hill
With well-timed volleys ; then the bugle band
Sounds forth its call to rest, and all is still.
CHAPTER IV
THE LAND OF THE OPEN HAND
TO whom this title refers I will leave
you for a little to guess. The
Australian and New Zealand
wounded I am sure think it suitable, and
they are shrewd fellows ; and I know it
is the name which unconsciously the coun-
try suggested is earning out here.
Now, if you have an hour to spare this
afternoon, you could not do better than
spend it with me at our Soldiers' Club, or
shall I more truly call it our " Greenock Tea
Room/' in Valletta, and thus give half of
my secret away.
Before we turn into Strada Forni we hear
the sound of a soldiers' chorus borne up the
street, and we know things are in full
swing, and we can guess which chaplain has
84
The Land of the Open Hand
dropped in to give " go " to the afternoon's
entertainment.
With such an advertisement flung far and
wide, and the sniff of delicious tea on a
nearer approach, no wonder we encounter a
queue at the doors. I have brought you at
three o'clock, the busiest hour, and we need
to push our way through the men that
crowd the short flight of stairs and little
lobby, waiting for vacant seats inside.
On entering we see that our guess as to
the chaplain was correct. There are really
two present. Near the piano stands Rev.
Robert Menzies, and his Camphill congrega-
tion should see him now, for he is at his
best. With pipe in one hand, with which
he beats time, he is singing with great
feeling and expression a favourite song of
the soldiers. Almost unconsciously he has
broken into it, as is his way, and the men
have picked up the chorus, and Rev. C.
McEchern, of Tighnabruaich, one of our
other chaplains, with his usual alertness,
has seated himself at the piano and picked
up the air on its keys, and the whole
85
The Land of the Open Hand
thing is going with a mighty swing as we
enter.
The men are mostly in blue coats, the
class we want. They have not actually
reached the convalescent stage yet, and
have to be back to their hospitals by six
o'clock. Their pay is two shillings a week,
so I do not think our Greenock friends will
grudge their gift of a cup of tea to those
who have suffered, even to the sacrifice of
limbs, for their sake, and who have not the
money in hand to pay for such a luxury.
Some day the authorities will acknowledge
that Greenock, as well as the doctors and
nurses, has done its part in helping to cure
our wounded. Already the men have made
this acknowledgment in multitudes. Your
ears would tingle if you heard how they
attributed their quicker recovery to the
marvellous effects of the Greenock teas.
Let us peep into the kitchen for a mo-
ment. It is a busy scene, and there is no
space for idle spectators. In fact, it is like
a kitchen on one of our Pullman cars, where
every inch of space has had to be made
86
The Land of the Open Hand
use of. Here there have been great altera-
tions, everything that is not of immediate
use has been cleared out. Shelves have been
erected. These are piled with plates of
bread that are eloquent of the forenoon toil
of the ladies. Fifty loaves have been cut
into slices and spread with butter and jam.
We can afford no other luxury than this
now, the days of cakes and buns are gone.
Then there were about sixty or seventy to
provide for, now there are between four
hundred and five hundred daily.
Yet the cruse of oil fails not. Yesterday
I got copies of The Christchurch Press, New
Zealand, and The Auckland Herald, in
which my articles had appeared, and with
them a cheque for twenty pounds to swell
the funds. Glasgow, through the energy
of Mr. Menzies, is responding, and Scotland
is winning a name for openness of heart
and generosity, which will be carried by
these thousands of Colonials back to their
homelands ; and in the days to come when
they refight their battles over again, and
tell of their wounds, I know they will not
87
The Land of the Open Hand
forget to mention Greenock in grateful
tones, and they will always think of Scot-
land as the land of the open hand. I have
chosen that phrase as a title, for it worthily
fits the town and country that have so
generously spread the tables in this little
island for worn warriors. In no other
place in Malta is a free tea given to our
soldiers daily, and people are wondering
when it is going to stop. But it is not
going to stop. Just now the expense, even
for simple bread and butter and jam, with
tea, approximates £2 a day.
Now, we are not wanted in the kitchen, so
we had better move out. The ladies are
too busy to talk. We catch a glimpse of
the gas stoves with their kettles singing
merrily, and turn back into the hall. Here
there has also been a great transformation.
We have refurnished it. A dozen little
square tables with five or six chairs round
each have taken the place of the cumber-
some forms and trestle tables. At the end
of the room a large table covered with
green baize has been reserved for special
88
The Land of the Open Hand
papers and magazines, and another for
writing.
THE OPENING OF THE HALL
While we glance round this busy scene
let me tell you something about its start.
To understand hospital life in this
sirocco-swept island one has to experience
the humid grip of the hot air as it en-
wraps you like some invisible octopus,
wrings every particle of vitality out of the
body, and leaves you as limp as a sucked
orange.
The men who have got the length of sit-
ting on their beds or limping along the
wards have nothing else to think of but the
heat, and it is far from an invigorating
subject. Therefore Mr. Campbell and I
felt that we would be true trustees of the
money entrusted to our charge if we got up
a home for our brave lads.
I need not speak of initial difficulties.
This is a land of inertia, and the only cold
water that is to be found here is that which
is thrown on new schemes. Authorities are
89
The Land of the Open Hand
conservative. However, difficulties are to
my colleague as a red rag to a bull.
The day before the opening Mrs. Mac-
kinnon met a group of wounded men out-
side the door of the hall. They had just
come to see the place where the home was
to be. Poor fellows ! If only the friends
at home could realise what this meant, they
also would share in the pleasure they have
been the means of giving to others.
Long before the hour streams of blue-
jacketed men, some with arms in a sling,
others on crutches, could be seenmakingtheir
way to the hall, which had been cleaned and
garnished, and smiled its welcome with the
perfume and freshness of newly-cut flowers.
One man, who on the previous Sunday had
hobbled a mile with only one boot on to
attend Divine service, repeated the journey,
and his happy face almost brought tears of
joy to our eyes. Would any Greenock
church-goer have the courage and deter-
mination to go a mile to church in his
stocking-soles, if because of a wound he
could not get his boot on ?
90
The Land of the Open Hand
Every man who was invited, and who
could come, was there. The little hall was
full. It was Mrs. Mackinnon's province
to look after the tea, and the white clothed
tables were soon laden with tempting
eatables, and the cup that cheers was never
more relished.
" My ! I wish we could take these
ladies out to the Dardanelles to make us tea
like that ! " I overheard one soldier say
to his friend as he laid down his cup.
There was reason to be proud, for the men
manifested their relish of the treat in no
doubtful fashion. On the platform, gracing
the occasion, were also the two chief
medical men in Malta, Colonel Sleman,
principal medical officer, under whose
charge are all the numerous hospitals, and
Colonel Ballance, the famous brain specialist.
The latter spoke with such effect that I
feel I cannot do better than give you some
of his sentences.
" Britain," he said, " is face to face with
a foe who for many years has planned her
destruction. It is necessary, therefore, that
91
The Land of the Open Hand
every individual should keep as fit physic-
ally and spiritually as possible. Sacrifice is
the rule of all that is best in life. A titanic
struggle such as Germany is waging at the
present is only possible when the entire
nation, heart and soul, is at the back of its
leaders. This can only be brought about
when they are dominated by one idea.
Their philosophy, summed up in a word, is
this : Strength is extolled as the only
virtue ; weakness is proclaimed to be a
vice and deadly sin. The weak are de-
clared to have no claim to protection. The
dogmas of religion and morality are taught
as having no binding force on the individual.
Humanitarian ideals are laughed at as only
a contemptible expression. The German is
educated to believe that no laws or promises
can bind the State, only its own will. In
this war, therefore, there is a clash of two
systems of thought. We are fighting not
for material objects but for a spiritual ideal.
When a quarrel is for money or for a strip
of territory peace can be concluded without
moral loss. To make peace when an ideal
92
The Land of the Open Hand
is at stake is to be false to the voices which
tell us that man is born for other things
than to enjoy the moral and material
heritage of his fathers. This is why Britain
cannot give up fighting, however great her
losses, till victory is secured, for to do so
would be treason to all mankind.
" There are three reasons which chiefly in-
fluence the conduct of a man in this world —
personal interest, social duty, religious duty.
For my part, I shall hold that the last is the
only all-powerful influence. The fact of
Christ is the great satisfying and purifying
force in the world, both for the individual
and the nation. To belong to the British
Navy or Army to-day is to bear a part in
the greatest struggle for right or truth that
has ever been fought on this blood-stained
earth. In this noble contest it is required
of you to be pure in body as well as brave
in spirit. If it is your lot never to return,
you will leave an immortal work behind
you in the liberation of mankind from a
foul and grasping tyranny ; you will have
become one of the makers of a future
93
The Land of the Open Hand
rescued from the menace of vile ambitions
and merciless cruelty. And if it is given
to you to pass into the happier day and
share the peace won by the true heart and
unfaltering arm of your country, you will
find such a satisfaction in the name of
Briton as no man living has ever known/*
Colonel Sleman, in a few words, spoke of
the value of the work being done by all who
at this time came out to assist the troops.
It made little difference whether they were
in Lemnos or Malta ; what mattered was
that they were giving their help.
The hero of the stocking foot, Lance-
Corporal Taylor, Christchurch, New Zea-
land, moved a vote of thanks to the ladies.
Another cup of tea followed before the
men parted. Teapots need to have no
bottoms here, or at least the bottom must
never be reached, for there is always a great
thirst, and tea has come into its own as the
most quenching drink.
But let us have a talk with some of the
men, and get their stories at first hand.
94
The Land of the Open Hand
BURIED ALIVE
Here is one with all the skin on his face
peeled off, and he is just out for the first day
with his new face, which is extremely raw to
look at. Very simply he tells us one of the
most astounding tales ever narrated.
" It was like this," he said. " Some of
us were talking in a trench, not thinking
of any danger, when suddenly the Turks
began to fire, and we heard the hurtling of
a shell. The rest of the fellows at once
made for a dug-out. I was last, and, of
course, could not go faster than the man
in front. With a bang the thing plopped
right in beside us. I threw myself on my
face, and in an instant there was a most
terrific roar, and I felt tons of earth tum-
bling on top of me. I lost consciousness.
After a while I recovered my senses. At
first I could not think where I was. My
surroundings seemed so strange, and I
could not move. Then memory came back,
and I recalled the shell bursting, and
realised that I was buried alive. I gave
95
The Land of the Open Hand
myself up for lost. And I can tell you,
Padre, I did some harder thinking in these
moments than I ever did in my life before."
There is an earnestness in his voice as
he says this, whose spiritual note our ears
have become trained to detect. These men
have struck the deeper foundations of life
in those moments when the surface debris
has been cleared aside by the grim reality
of death.
" Then/' he continues, " I thought an-
other shell had burst on top of me. The
earth began to choke me. How I managed
to breathe so far was owing to the soil being
lumped and air getting through. Now the
crevices got choked. Then my ear detected
a sound that gave me hope. My chums
had set themselves to dig me out, and it
was the loose earth from their spades that
was smothering me, and their knocks that
sounded like other shells bursting. I can
tell you I was glad when I got the first real
mouthful of air. I left most of the skin of
my face behind me, but I was glad to get
off in the end so cheaply. I am feeling all
96
The Land of the Open Hand
right now, and expect to be marked down
for the convalescent camp in a few days."
TURKISH HUMOUR
" The Turks gave us a laugh one day/'
another man says as we sit down for a talk
with him. " Our trenches were very close,
and there was a good deal of bombing going
on. At our particular part, however, things
were very quiet, and some of us were hav-
ing a smoke, when suddenly flop into our
trench came something that made us jump.
I tell you we were not long in clearing out
from the spot. Most of us dived into dug-
outs to await the explosion, but it did not
come off. We waited for a while, and still
the thing didn't burst. Then we came out
and had a look at it, and found that it was
an old tin can, just thrown over to give us
a fright. We can see the joke of it now,
though we did not at the time."
Thus we chat on, and between the sups
of tea we catch glimpses of the battlefield.
Amidst the hum of conversation battles are
fought over again and notes compared.
G 97
The Land of the Open Hand
Here there are strange meetings, for the club
is proving a valuable centre for all the men.
OUR HUNGRY BOYS
Now, just let us stand up and take a
general look round. There is one thing
that gives us pleasure, and that is the way
the lads go for the bread and butter. I
would almost add that there is a touch of
pathos about it, for the boys are dread-
fully hungry. Remember that many of
them are just recovered from fevers or other
illness, during which they were partially
starved for medical reasons, and now they
have a ravenous appetite. Many of them
are boys after all, and just as between meals
they might go to their mother for " a piece/'
so they come into this home, where the
ladies are doing their best to mother them.
Every mother who has a son of her own will
know what this means, and I do not think
she would have it in her heart to deny them
their request. Perhaps the mothers at
home will help us to hand these " pieces "
to the hungry boys out here.
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The Land of the Open Hand
Yesterday one of the chief medical men
of the island, who is in command of a big
hospital here, said he very heartily ap-
proved of our work. There were societies,
he remarked, getting large sums of money
at present from the public for purposes
that could almost be dispensed with. For
himself, he would only give to those who
were in direct contact with the men, and
especially to those who were trying to build
them up physically. Such teas were a valu-
able help to the work of the hospitals.
To-day one Aberdonian said rather rue-
fully to Mrs. Mackinnon : " The doctor says
I maun be fed up, but I ha vena seen the
beginnin' o' it yet/'
" Are you not feeling strong ? " she asked.
" Na ; I'm nearly as weak as the tea in
the hospitals."
So the chaff goes on, and the men spea k
their mind, and feel at home.
HOME NEWS
But one of the chief attractions of the
hall is home news. At one end we have
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The Land of the Open Hand
had a large paper rack erected, containing
about thirty fairly large pigeon holes. Into
these the newspapers are sorted. Through
the assistance of the Greenock Telegraph
a letter asking for periodicals appeared in
about sixty publications in Great Britain,
and there has been an immediate and gener-
ous response. The Welshman or Irishman
has only to go to his particular pigeon hole,
and there he will doubtless find his local
paper, and for the next half-hour, as he
settles himself in his chair, he is oblivious
of his surroundings. In one pigeon-hole
are Greenock Telegraphs, in another Glasgow
Heralds. On the row below may be found
the Sydney Morning Herald, or the Mel-
bourne Argus. I have not yet counted the
variety of publications, but I should think
that there would be over a hundred differ-
ent kinds. The Rothesay man can find his
Buteman, the Lovat Scout from Tobermory
his Oban Times. Paisley is about the only
town in Scotland unrepresented.
Mrs. Mackinnon has been ably assisted
in this work by Miss Daisy Jenkin from the
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start, and several other ladies, who have plied
the bread knife with unceasing vigour.
NATIONAL TYPES
The room affords a splendid opportunity
for making a study of national character and
temperament. Here, perhaps, as nowhere
else in Malta, or indeed in the whole sphere of
war, do the varied allies rub shoulders. We
canonlyglance at thesedistinctions just now.
They would make an article in themselves.
Very prominent is the Australian. He is
a big fellow, and has a free and easy man-
ner and masterful stride. There is some-
thing invitingly frank and breezy about
him, and there is little self-consciousness.
" I say, Padre, " said one of them yester-
day, in a voice that the whole room might
hear if it liked, " I want your opinion on
the immortality of the soul/'
The question was very characteristic.
These men speak quite freely of the deeper
truths of religion in a way that astonishes the
Scot. Of course, they are also perfectly frank
about subjects of the very opposite kind.
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The New Zealander is ablendingof theScot
and Australian. He is quieter in his talk and
his Colonial accent is not quiteso pronounced.
There are Indians here, too, our dusky
allies. How they found out our room I do
not know, but they got a kindly welcome
and a cup of tea, and they showed their
white teeth in a smile of appreciation. Tall,
dignified, quiet men, who insist before leav-
ing on going to the kitchen door and salaam-
ing most graciously to the ladies. French-
men, too, have found their way here, and
they seemed delighted when one of the ladies
carried on a brisk conversation with them.
There is the Lovat Scout, with the stride
of the gamekeeper ; the strapping Scottish
Horse man, the Englishman of varied
county and accent, the Welshman and Irish,
the Newfoundlander, the thoughtful Edin-
burgh boy, and the innocent looking laddie
of the West. Here they all are in a small
hall, finding speech more easy because of
the tea, and joining in the same swelling
chorus that proclaims the unity and spirit
of the British Empire.
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CHAPTER V
MALTA RAINBOWS
LAME the sirocco/'
It is our scapegoat in Malta.
If a man has a pain in his head
or his leg, or if he loses his temper, it is be-
cause of this ill-favoured wind, that blows
from the south to the south-east and carries
an unwelcome whiff of the African deserts
with it.
Weeks have gone past and I have not
sent you a letter. Well, it is our old enemy
the sirocco that is to blame. Not that
personally I have suffered much from this
moist and sticky hot breath. The latest
victim has been my typewriter, and minus
it I am like a steamship without its pro-
peller.
It was a sirocco day, and I was typing
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rather vigorously, when my old friend sud-
denly gave out. For sixteen years it has
been my faithful and obedient servant, and
travelled far on my knee, and clicked to the
music of American trains. Neither the
heights of the Rockies nor the hustle of
Seattle ever affected its serenity ; but there,
of course, there is no sirocco.
I was in the middle of a sentence when it
failed me. I enquired diligently for a
mender of Hammond typewriters. At last
I discovered a man whose highest creden-
tials were that he repaired gramophones.
Is it not a characteristic of the age that the
latter is more in evidence than the former ?
After a patient investigation he pronounced
that the mainspring was broken, and de-
pressed me by stating that another could
not be got in Malta. Why do I narrate
this ? Because there is a study of Maltese
character in it ; and, as you will see, the
impression this workman left was in the
end not unfavourable. He took my
machine to hospital, and, of course, during
that time my brain was very fertile with
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ideas, the article I could have written you
then would really have interested, the
thoughts were on the very tips of my fingers,
but, alas ! there were no keyboards at hand,
and so all those bright imaginations were lost.
At last the typewriter returned, but only
in a convalescent state. The mechanic
could get it to work — but only if one end
was elevated at an angle of forty-five degrees.
He was triumphant. I was not so enthu-
siastic. But as I wished to catch up on
those fleeting ideas, and could wait no
longer, I propped one side of my convales-
cent machine up with books and started.
Like most people I have had my share
of provocations in life — I play golf a little
—but never has my temper been tested so
sorely. Cruel are the wounds of a friend.
I had just got hold of the tail end of an idea,
and was imprisoning it in a sentence, when
the carriage of the Hammond stopped, and
I had to give it a push with my thumb.
This diverted my thoughts, and by that
time the idea had escaped to fairyland.
This happened frequently, and always at
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a critical moment. My ideas just teased
me, they laughed at me from a safe distance,
and with a convalescent typewriter I was
powerless to catch them. So I sent it back
to hospital again, and the Maltese mechanic
who had already shown one characteristic
of his race, now revealed the counter-
balancing virtue of deft and painstaking
manipulation. He took the machine to
pieces. He joined the parts of the broken
mainspring ; how I do not know, and he
has returned it to me in as perfect working
condition as the day sixteen years ago when
it first stepped brand new from the counter
into my desk.
And now for my subject. Three large
Army books lie before me filled with the
names of patients to whom it has been my
privilege to minister. Some of them are
home again, others are back at the front ;
many have gone where there is no more
sorrow or sighing. They are all more than
names. They have become memories, and
as the light of memory plays upon them I
see there a rainbow radiant with its Chris-
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tian virtues, and I would like you to catch
a glimpse of it also as it spans with its mes-
sage of hope the dark cloud of suffering.
PATIENCE
How many names rank themselves under
this heading ! I could play on your heart-
strings by telling you of scores who preached
its silent sermon ; and if I should ever get
impatient again I have only to think of
them and feel ashamed.
One face I recall that used to light up
with its smile of welcome. It was that of
a man whose legs, whose arms, whose neck,
were paralysed, so that the only part of
him he could move was his eyes. It is
his smile that haunts me to-night. On such
a background it almost seemed out of place,
but that was the fascination of it. He never
complained. He liked you to come and
talk with him. To sit down at his bedside
as if you really meant a chat. He an-
swered with those wonderful eyes of his.
I have seen humour play in their depths,
but never did I notice the darkening of im-
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patience. One day I went to his ward as
usual, and found him away. He was gone,
and yet not gone. He had been marked
down for England for some time.
" Left yesterday in a hospital ship/' was
what his neighbour told me. Yet somehow
he still seemed to be in the ward. He had
left behind him the subtle charm of his
wonderful patience. That was months ago,
and now a new generation are in these
beds who know not " Joseph." Still I fancy
he is there, for something about the ward
distinguishes it from others. There is the
aroma of a gracious sufferer. I cannot ex-
plain it, but somehow all its patients seem
more gentle, more submissive.
Those who knew him spoke often about
his patience. One by one they left, but the
tradition remained of the man in bed No. 3.
It would be a happy thing to think that
here we had a parable of life, and that one
day, when the place that knows us shall
know us no more, there will be left behind
something that will cling to that spot,
something that will unconsciously influence
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others, something more than a memory—
an aroma, if you like to call it so.
COURAGE
Here again I can have my pick of pages.
What stories of battles I have heard at
first hand ! Let me take you to the bedside
of a sergeant of the Ayrshire Yeomanry, and
listen to an account of one of the pluckiest
deeds ever wrought, which is not without its
touch of humour.
It was during what must have been one
of our very last attacks at Cape Helles.
Some of the enemy's saps were being taken.
In one of them the Turks turned to the left
and rushed for a barricade their friends had
reared. The British gave chase, but it was
necessary to investigate the turning to the
right, down which a few Turks were seen
to run, in case it connected with a Turkish
trench. It really did, but a shell at that
moment burst and blew it in, blocking the
passage. The sergeant started to explore.
A few minutes later a shell knocked in the
sap behind him, so that he could not re-
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turn. On rounding a barricade of sand-
bags what was his amazement to find about
thirty Turks grouped in the sap, which had
been made a cul-de-sac by the bursting shell.
He had not a moment in which to make up
his mind. He knew that he could not go
back, and to go forward meant thirty to one.
However, he kept his presence of mind, and
lowering his rifle to impress them with the
fact that he felt too confident of his supe-
riority even to threaten them, he called
upon them to surrender. They imagined
that he was the leader of a large party of
British troops, and, realising that they were
in a tight corner, they dropped their
weapons and raised their hands. Thus he
held them while the battle raged at the
other end of the sap and until a way was
cleared behind him. Then he motioned
to them to come forward one by one, and
as each Turk passed him his enemy patted
him on the back in gratitude for having
spared their lives !
A tale like that tells of nerve, and it was
very simply narrated to me by the ser-
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geant, who, I am sure, would blush to see
it repeated in print.
CHEERFULNESS
I might choose at random any of the
several thousand names before me, and use
it as an illustration of this virtue. What
is the secret of this almost unquenchable
cheerfulness in our British soldier ? I have
seen it asserted under very strange circum-
stances. The other day one poor fellow
came into our club. He had both his
hands shot away, and was unable to feed
himself. Yet he sat down at a table, and
seemed greatly to relish the cup of tea held
to his lips by a comrade's hands. He
talked and laughed with the others, and
appeared thoroughly to enjoy himself, and
to one of the ladies whose tone questioned
more than her words he replied : " What is
the use of being down-hearted ? " This
spirit, I believe, if its origin be sought for,
will be found to have its roots in the Chris-
tian faith of our country, whose fruits are
sacrifice and hope.
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But one soldier stands out from the
others as the cheeriest man I ever met.
He was a big, handsome New Zealander,
named Fraser, and when he first came in he
was in a most critical condition. He had
eighteen wounds in his body.
" Oh, I am getting on all right/' was his
first greeting to me.
From the start I noticed that his mind
always dwelt on the most favourable
symptoms of his wounds, and 1 believe that
this helped to save his life.
If his shoulder were healing he spoke
about that, and said nothing about his
knee, which was suppurating. I called
him the cheeriest patient in Valletta Hos-
pital. When I told him about our tea-
room for the wounded he insisted on giving
some money to drive up some of the other
men in the ward who were strong enough
to go though unable to walk, and from that
time onward, while battling with pain, he
was always anxious to talk about it, and
plan for others enjoying its benefits. For
months he lay there, emitting, like radium,
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rays of cheer that brightened the whole
ward. He was taken from his bed to the
New Zealand hospital ship, and our last
glimpse of him was a smile. That was one
of Malta's rainbows, which I shall never
forget.
I have seen its light in strange places.
One was in the eyes of a grizzled Irishman
in St. Elmo Hospital.
" How are you getting on ? " I asked.
" Och ! It's my eye that's bothering
me. I got a chill in it last night," he
answered. And yet just two days before
he had had his leg amputated !
FAITH
It is with hesitating hand that I venture
to draw for you a sketch of a face that
looks out of my mental album at the very
mention of faith. He was on the dangerous
list when I first saw him, and had just
arrived. There was a terrible wound in
his head ; yet he could speak. At first my
heart grew sad as I listened to his story.
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He had neither father nor mother, nor
apparently any relative. His only friend
was his landlady in Scotland. He gave me
her name, and told me how good she had
been to him, and how sorry he felt that the
war had cost her her lodger. Poor lad !
Then a word of mine brought a gleam of
brightness into those eyes shadowed for the
moment by the thought of his only friend.
I had spoken of the Future. Already he
was in the Valley of the Shadow, and in a
few hours was to pass out at its other end.
But if ever there was a reflector of heavenly
light, a proof of the Eternal Day beyond
the shades, it was that bandaged face which
was catching the beauty of the sunrise. A
moment before I had thought him lonely,
but unconsciously he let me see the shadows
of an innumerable company of angels. It
is not merely at Mons that these may be
observed. In the hospitals of Malta a
strange brightness passes like a sunbeam
across a dying face. Is it not the shadow
of an angel, or of One whom the angels
worship ?
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ENDURANCE
One bed I must take you to, where it
seems to me all the virtues I have already
spoken of have a noble illustration with
this one added, namely, endurance. It is
six months now since Hamilton was ad-
mitted to St. Elmo Hospital, In that
time he has endured seventeen operations.
If you wish to know the price of war you
learn it here. If you want to witness its
triumph, here is one. At present he has a
steel bar through his knee. But that is
nothing to what there has been. Only the
determination, such as our nation is now
manifesting, to endure to the end could
have pulled him through. Approach that
bed as you would do a throne, for there the
spirit of our race is being crowned, albeit with
a circlet of thorns for the moment, yet with
a regal dignity that denotes the conqueror.
It is the chaplain who gets at first hand
those tales which, like the garments of the
wounded man, are smirched with the stains
of blood and still smell of powder. The
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doctors and nurses are occupied with the
care of the poor, shattered limbs, but it is
the chaplain who comes with healing for
mind and soul, and if he has the sympa-
thetic art he will realise that part of that
healing process consists in listening.
The poor fellow who has just been carried
from the stretcher into the bed, and who
feels the comforting touch of clean sheets
after he has wakened up from his first
sleep, wants to tell somebody all that has
happened. The exciting scenes through
which he has passed have dazzled his mind,
and just as one who has looked on the sun
can see nothing else for a while, so the after
impression of those awful sights cannot be
removed until expressed in speech. After
the story has once been told the mind is
relieved, and it may be that the soldier
will not care to speak of the subject again,
for the memory is too painful.
Thus the chaplain from the bedside sees
the battle at many points. He sees what
one soldier saw, and then what another
witnessed, and the minor incidents which
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make the battle, and which are known only
to the individual, who was the principal
actor in them, unfold themselves and repro-
duce the lurid panorama.
Let me give you some such incidents and
in this grim struggle, where physical and
spiritual realities become one, we will see
the latter illustrated in the former.
THE POWER OF PRAYER AND COMRADESHIP
He told me the story simply as he lay
wounded in nine places. It happened in
an attack on the Turkish trenches. Just
as the last one was being rushed three rifle
bullets pierced his shoulder. He swayed
and fell in front of his men, and at that
moment a bomb exploded, the shrapnel
hitting him in six other places and knocking
him over into the communication trench.
Then he swooned, and knew nothing of what
was happening. Owing to a retirement at
another part of the line the British force
had to give up some of the trenches so
dearly won, and the major was left for dead
amongst a heap of the slain. When he
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awoke it was hours afterwards. Day had
long since broken, and there was a deathly
stillness round him. He was entangled in
a mass of dead men, and could not move.
As he turned his head he suddenly saw two
Turks peering cautiously round the end of
the trench at him. As soon as their eyes
met the Turks " made a bunk/' to use his
own phrase, and then he swooned again.
Once more he regained consciousness, and
there were the same two Turks, a little
nearer this time. He had no weapon
within reach, even if he had possessed
strength enough to use it ; but again he
looked them straight in the face, and the
men fled out of sight, though every now and
then they would put their heads round the
corner. Evidently they had a wholesome
fear, even of a wounded Briton. Then
matters became more serious. The Turks
threw a hand bomb over the trench at him.
It struck a dead soldier and exploded with-
out hurting the major ; but he realised
that to remain a moment longer where he
was meant death. But how could he move ?
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One thing only could he do, and that was
to pray. He asked God for strength, and
it was strangely given to him. He managed
to get on his hands and feet and crawl a
few yards, just in the nick of time, for the
next bomb fell where he had been. Slowly
and painfully he dragged himself along the
continuation trench. Then he came on
one of his own men lying helplessly wounded.
" I am afraid I have no strength left to
help you," said the major sympathetically,
" but if I reach anywhere this way I'll send
out assistance." The man had given him-
self up for dead, but the voice of his officer
rallied his spirit, and when the major
looked round again he saw the private crawl-
ing after him. Then they met a sand-bag
barrier. They were too weak to climb over
it, but together they got hold of one of the
bags and toppled it down, and after a rest
they did the same with another. Mean-
while the Turks were cautiously stalking
their prey. There was not a moment to
lose. Praying for further strength, the
major and private helped each other
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through the gap they had made in the
barrier, and rolled down into another
trench. Fortunately they had fallen
among friends. Some men of the Essex
Regiment happened to be on the other
side, and they were carried to safety.
Such was the thrilling tale the wounded
officer told me, and need I add that it is
one more example of the power of prayer ?
Ask, and ye shall receive. " Also, does it
not illustrate the encouragement of com-
radeship ? The private had lost hope as
well as strength, and was gasping his life
out, until the words and example of his
major revived his spirit, and he made the
effort that saved his life. Christ does not
say merely " Take up thy cross/' Had He
done so our hearts might have failed, but
He adds, " Follow Me." He has gone
before, and in that there is the stimulus
that comes from comradeship.
A REFLECTION OF THE CROSS
Another lad had a strange story to tell,
and the wounded men beside him were able
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to corroborate his statement. A fierce
battle was raging, and in face of overwhelm-
ing numbers the British force was retiring
to their trenches. Suddenly the lad heard
the cry of a wounded man calling for water.
He stopped and stooped over the prostrate
form. Meanwhile bullets were whizzing
on every side. Quickly he unslung his
water bottle and held it to the other's
parched lips.
"Only drink half," he said; "I may yet
need the other half myself."
Then, taking pity on the wounded man,
and knowing that it would likely mean
death to be left out there exposed to the
enemy's fire, he called a comrade and asked
him to give him a hand in trying to carry
the helpless soldier to shelter. Together
they staggered under their load, the target
now of many bullets. At last they reached
the trench, and simply rolled their living
burden over, then hastened to spring after
him. At that instant a shell caught the
rescuer on the shoulder, shattering the bone,
and he fell beside the man he had helped.
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His prophecy was true ; he needed the other
half of the bottle.
Days passed, during which the narrator
of the story was carried down to the beach,
put on board ship, and brought to Malta.
He was taken to Cottonera Hospital, and it
was there that I found him, and that the
strange sequel of the story took place.
One day a wounded soldier, who is now
convalescent, entered the ward. Suddenly
he stopped in surprise at the first bed on
his left, and looked curiously at the pale
face on the pillow.
" Why, you are my rescuer ! " he ex-
claimed with delight ; " the man who gave
me that drink, which I will never forget,
and which I can never repay/'
They did not know each other's names,
but that mattered little, blood had ce-
mented a friendship stronger than death.
The half-bottle of water and the heroic deed
are already reaping their reward in life's
richest gift of a loyal comradeship. Thus
the Cross is casting its reflection on our
blood-stained fields.
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THE PRECIOUSNESS OF A PEBBLE
Our ideas of values are getting strangely
upset by this war. What we are apt to
consider worthless things suddenly assume
an importance which teaches us that
nothing which can truly serve mankind is
common or unclean in the Creator's eyes.
What is there more paltry than a pebble ?
We spurn it with our feet. Yet the story
a soldier told me shows how a pebble may
be above rubies to a wounded man.
In a charge in which valour had over-
leapt discretion a certain regiment had
suddenly to halt and fall back. In an out-
of-the-way hollow it left behind two
wounded men. Both were injured in arms
and legs, and with difficulty crawled toward
each other for the comfort of companion-
ship. When day broke and they raised
their heads to look round, what was their
dismay to find that they were lying within
the Turkish lines. At any moment they
might be discovered. Their only chance
was to keep in the shelter of the hollow and
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lie flat, without moving more than possible.
They shared what remaining water they
had, and then nerved themselves to face
the burning thirst of the blistering day.
One had picked up a smooth pebble, and
this he put into his mouth and sucked, and
it helped to cool his tongue. Then he
handed it to his comrade, and, turn about,
through all that terrible day the precious
pebble was exchanged from the one to the
other. It was all the refreshment they had.
For another night of agony and day of
despair that pebble was their one solace.
At last another British charge brought them
within reach of friends and they were
rescued along with that precious pebble,
which will be cherished with greater regard
than even if it were a gem. The neglected
stone has been given chief place.
HOME, SWEET HOME
I close, not with a trench story, but with
one that saddened and touched me deeply.
Yesterday, as usual, I was summoned to
many death-beds, all fever cases. I stood
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beside one man who could scarcely speak.
Already his flesh had turned black, and the
flies were claiming their victim. As I
spoke to him he made a feeble motion with
his hand towards his one treasure. It was
tied up in his pocket handkerchief. I under-
stood, and untied the knot, and took out
the contents. They consisted of a crushed
picture postcard and his Testament. It
was the card he wished to look at again.
It was an ordinary print, depicting a mother
and children seated beside the hearth, and
above them in a cloud the visionary scene of
their thoughts, a body of soldiers marching
to war. Below was printed the inscription,
" It is not like home when Daddy is away."
The soldier nodded when I asked if he
were a married man. He had a wife and
four children. Their wait for him will, I
fear, be a long one, unless the fervent
prayer for the sick brings an answer which,
to human minds, would seem miraculous.
Such are the sacrifices that are being made
— wife, children, home, life — for the sake of
Empire and God.
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CHAPTER VI
IN LIGHTER VEIN
TO all boys and girls who believe in
the power of fairies to grant "a
wish that is wished " I would
utter a solemn warning. In the foolish
days of my first arrival in Malta I wished
a wish, and some malevolent fairy has seen
to it that it has been answered. Like the
mosquitoes, the post seeks to make new-
comers its victims. It has a trick of tor-
menting the homesick stranger by allowing
him no letters for what seems like weeks.
Thus it extorted from me a wish. I wrote
to a friend saying that I wanted letters,
and I think at that the fairy must have
laughed, for it hurried away with its wish,
and for the last three weeks it has never
ceased with evil delight to grant that foolish
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In Lighter Vein
request. Even in my dreams, if I have
partaken of a Maltese supper, I am haunted
by my orderly's voice saying, " The Post
Office officials have sent to say that they
have twenty sacks waiting for you ! "
That fairy is not like the mean man
described by a Highlander who, in referring
to his method of treating, said, " He is this
sort, when you say, Stop ! he stops. " My
post bags are weekly increasing in num-
ber, and show no signs of decrease. The
D.A.A.G. asked me if I meant to run a
G.P.O. as a show of my own. Yet what a
pathetic sidelight on the war these heaped-
up postbags are ! How expressive of the
patriotism, the personal anxieties of thou-
sands in Australia and New Zealand !
Malta, where their sons are lying fighting
with death, is a sacred spot to them. Their
hearts are here with their loved ones.
Hence the mail bags.
A CHAPLAIN'S MAIL
Humour is not entirely absent even from
these August days, and perhaps when I tell
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you about my weekly mail you will smile,
as did Major Lyle, of the Argyll and
Sutherland Highlanders, who happened to
be at my house when it arrived.
The postman brought word that he was
unable to bring all the correspondence that
was awaiting me. The suspicion of a smile
about his lips aroused my curiosity. I sent
my orderly to the post office to get the
letters, and he came back with nothing ex-
cept the same smile. I thought then that
it was time to go myself. I was escorted
to the sorting-room and met there by
smiling officials. Really that smile was
growing infectious. Then I was con-
ducted to my mail. It was contained in
two huge sacks, four feet high. There were
some lesser packages, but those sacks
fascinated me. Two men could with diffi-
culty lift one. In fact, it took three to
carry it down to a cab. Where to empty
out its contents was the next question when
it had arrived at my house. No table
could possibly hold it. The orderly hesi-
tated about suggesting the floor, but there
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was no other place ; and so my study was
turned into a General Post Office. It was
then Major Lyle arrived, and I took him
to see the first consignment, and I am glad
I had him for a witness, otherwise I would
have refrained from arousing suspicion as
to my veracity. The Major was sitting in
the drawing-room when the second sack
arrived. He heard its laborious ascent of
the stairs, and I took him out to the landing
to see it. I am sorry that I did not measure
its length. I cannot remember ever seeing
a sack so long or fat before. My orderly
has the spirit of neatness, and he built a
stack on my study floor that would have
delighted the heart of any farmer. The
only disadvantage is that it must be un-
loaded from the top. I tried to count the
contents of the bag and got to over two
hundred and then stopped, considering it a
waste of time.
Now what, you will be asking, is the mean-
ing of this large mail. It was addressed to
the Presbyterian Chaplain, and nine-tenths
and more came from Australia and New
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In Lighter Vein
Zealand. It is a visible expression of the
loyalty of these Colonies, of how their hearts
have followed their sons. The majority of
the separate items were papers for wounded
soldiers, addressed to the care of the chap-
lain. There were letters besides, asking for
information about men whose whereabouts
were unknown or who were in Malta.
Now, I do not wish any Scottish reader
to be dissuaded from sending me the papers
which are so much appreciated. We have
need for them all and more. Nothing
helps to brighten a wounded Scot so much
as a paper from home, and I feel deeply
grateful for those which are sent, and I can
assure the senders that all are put to a
most useful purpose.
Whether this Australian mail is to be
like the high tides, a monthly affair, I can-
not yet say. I am hurriedly getting rid of
the rakings of the stack in fear of a weekly
return of the sacks. There is a constant
dribble in of papers, but last week certainly
touched high-water mark. I have a vague
suspicion as to its cause. I did send a copy
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In Lighter Vein
of one of my Scotch articles to an Australian
paper, perhaps that might have something
to do with it. The real secret of course is
sympathy with our wounded.
Incidentally it led me into an altercation
with the chief of the post office. Many of
the senders had put nothing in the address
to indicate that the papers were for
wounded men, many were sent simply to
myself. The majority were stamped, yet
several of these were underpaid. Here
was the Post Office's chance for sending
in a little bill and threatening me with
bankruptcy ! None of us like to pay excess
postage on the receipt of our mail, and
certainly not a Scot. So I objected, and
correspondence led at last to a most cour-
teous interview with the postmaster. My
argument was for the spirit as opposed to
the letter of the regulations. Technically
he was right. I was not wounded. I
replied that I was the representative of the
wounded. He argued the needs of the
post office earning an honest penny. The
receipts had gone down and the expenses
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doubled owing to these new regulations.
I had as good an argument on those lines.
One had only to compare the excess postage
with the pay of a chaplain to realise that
the post office had not struck a very lucra-
tive mine ! It was a most pleasant inter-
view, and had a pleasant ending — for me.
The red tape had snapped, and the letter
had yielded to the spirit. There was a
compromise but only of detail. I was to
show my respect for red tape by signing on
each delivery, " for the wounded."
At this very moment, strange to say, an
interruption has occurred. It is a coinci-
dence that adds point to what I have just
said. I have stopped clicking my type-
writer, and the maid has given her message.
" The postmaster has sent me to say that
there are two sacks of correspondence
waiting at the office for you, sir."
So now I know that my mail is to be
weekly, and that unless I am particularly
active I shall soon have a perfect farmyard
of paper stacks in my study.
Months have passed since I wrote the
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above, and so I am now able to add the
sequel. What I have described has been
but the neap tide. Every week has not
failed to bring its twenty sacks. Once we
had thirty-five, but that was high-water
mark.
How are they disposed of ? is, I have no
doubt, the question in your mind. Somel
take home, and hand over to the stack-
building talents of my orderly ; others I
had transferred to our Soldiers' Club.
There were about sixty men in at the time,
some reading, others writing, some playing
games.
Surmising what would happen, I got the
bags quietly placed at intervals in the lobby.
Then entering I announced that an Austra-
lian and New Zealand mail had just come
in, and that I had several bags with papers
outside, and that those present could help
themselves, and take what they liked back
to their hospitals. You should have wit-
nessed the scene that followed. Books,
tables, ink and writing pads were left in a
moment. I have seen flies settling on
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syrup, but that is a feeble illustration ; I
have seen a football scrimmage, which is
nearer the mark. Round each bag there
was a mass of bodies, inside were the heads
and hands. These Australians appeared to
know by the feel their own local paper,
and one or another would emerge holding
aloft in triumph what corresponds to his
Greenock Telegraph. The best illustration
of all is that of vultures descending on a
carcase. In ten minutes the bags were
picked bare, and lay in little collapsed
heaps. A few papers were scattered round
them. Scotch ones, which were discarded
by the Australians, but which were very
carefully collected by me and sorted out
for our Scotch lads.
As for the letters, I do not care to speak
of them. I am afraid that fairy is sitting
on a pile of unanswered ones and laughing
at me. I have heard of sea captains experi-
encing a strange sensation when they felt
themselves mastered by the sea. My type-
writer and I have been inseparable com-
panions for years, we have crossed the
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Rockies together and wandered into many
strange places, but now we feel like the sea
captain, mastered by our own element.
Though the keys were to work at their
hardest I am afraid that pile of un-
answered letters would never grow less ;
for no sooner with a sigh of relief do I begin
to see the top of my table appearing
through the heaps of envelopes, than it
is hopelessly covered again ; while I
have been out another post has come in.
However, every one has their own diffi-
culties in these days, and if my Achi Baba
is visibly entrenching itself on my desk
I have yet the will to win, and some day I
shall master it.
INTERESTING VISITORS
I have a feeling that my last chapters
were sad, that I lifted the veil too freely
which hides the grim side of war ; so when
I began this one I promised myself a holi-
day. I determined to shut the door on the
day's work and speak only of its pleasures.
One of the greatest of these was the visit
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we had from our M.P., Major Godfrey
Collins. We were out when he first called,
but he found his way to the Soldiers' Club,
and spent half an hour with Mrs. Mackin-
non. Next morning he called for me, and
we had a delightful chat. He is on his way
East, and has utilised his few days in Malta
in visiting the wounded Greenock lads.
With one he had an amusing conversation.
" I remember you/' he said to him, " and
have good reason to. The last time we
met was at a political meeting, and you
heckled me."
The soldier laughed. How far away
those days seem now.
" Well, I hope/' added the Major, " that
we may meet again as we did before,
heckling and all/'
"I'll let you off easier the next time,
sir," was the rejoinder from the bed.
Two nights ago I had the most interest-
ing conversation of my life. It was with a
naval officer who had been spending the
last forty days in the Sea of Marmora, some-
times resting on its bed. He is on a sub-
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marine. But I must not tell you all he so
frankly spoke of. What his submarine
alone has done is beyond words. The won-
derful things his captain discovered, and
how they cheated the wily Turk who tried
to net them will make one of the most
exciting chapters in the history of this war.
Lying at the bottom of the Sea of Mar-
mora, shelling Turkish regiments from the
sea and then diving before their guns could
answer, sinking the enemy's troopships with
thousands of men — how many I had better
not say — breaking through the nets set to
trap them — all these adventures seemed
hardly to have taken the edge off the boy-
ishness of the young naval officer. Perhaps
it was because he was still so youthful that
these daring deeds had for him that ex-
hilarating thrill missed by those of thinner
blood.
THE WEATHER
Now how about the climate ? Is it
kindly towards our wounded ? The late
Prof. Henry Drummond stayed once for
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a fortnight with Dr. Wisely in Malta in
July, and he said tropical Africa was
nothing to Malta. I am ready to agree,
though I have not seen the other place.
How are you getting through the heat of
August then, you ask ? I can only say
that it is the heat that does the getting
through. It never ceases to come out of
one's pores and every one of them. I have
discovered only one remedy for it, and
that is to be too busy to even think of it.
It is fatal if you let your eye rest longingly
on the sofa, and sink there to meditate
on the heat. You are its victim at once.
Of course one often gets a rude reminder
in the middle of one's forgetfulness.
Especially when I feel a strange thing round
my neck and put up my hand to find a
circlet of pulp where only a short time
before there had been a stiff starched collar,
fresh from the laundry. It was rather dis-
concerting last Sunday to make the dis-
covery at my fourth service when I entered
the vestry at the church in Valletta. I
had left only half an hour to get across
In Lighter Vein
from my service at Bighi, and the only
dghaisa I could get was manned by one old
man. I would have taken an oar only the
thought of my collar restrained me. I
might have done so without much difference
in results, for the quarter-of-a-mile hurried
walk effectively did for it, and when I felt
for a collar on which to tie my bands there
was none left worthy of the name. There
is only one place where one escapes from
the heat, and even then I have my doubts.
The first thing you make for on getting
home is a cold bath. By that time you are
in an extravagant mood and forget that
every drop of water is charged for, and,
with a wild joy, fill the bath, but even
when you get completely under the cold
water I am not quite sure whether you are
not still perspiring !
THE MOSQUITOES
The mosquitoes, harbingers of summer,
have returned in force. Like the rising
generation, one doubts whether they are
better than their grandparents of last
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summer. In fact, they are just chips of
the old block, as Americans would say, and
are busy with their old game. My respect,
however, for them has increased. I do not
know whether Malta mosquitoes are wiser
than their cousins of other regions. I have
been compelled to undertake a painful
study of them, and alas ! it is no second-
hand evidence I offer you. Personal in-
vestigations have been forced upon me,
and reluctantly I have discovered that the
Malta mosquito has a wonderful brain.
This is how he goes about his business.
As you are at a safe distance it will not
unduly pain you if I narrate something of
his frightfulness. He alights on my cheek
when I am half awake, and lowers his long
proboscis, which resembles somewhat an
elephant's trunk, and extends its divided
lobes until they get a firm grip of the skin.
Then he is ready for action, and is as happy
as a surgeon who has a delicate operation in
hand. Inside this proboscis are five knives,
with which he begins to cut a way through
the flesh, going deeper and deeper until the
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In Lighter Vein
blood spurts out. Now he inserts a tube,
through which he sucks up the blood. If
this were all the damage he did we might
be content with calling him a mere
marauder, and not a murderer. But, un-
fortunately, he is playing the German
game here, and many of our casualties are
due to him. You see he does not take
the care he ought when he goes from person
to person, and, unlike a good surgeon,
leaves his lancets unwiped. The conse-
quence is that he carries germs from the
blood of one man to another. These may
be virulent microbes, that benefit by the
change, and in their new surroundings
reproduce themselves in millions, and thus
cause fever. The particular braininess of
the Maltese mosquito is in the crafty way
he smuggles himself in the daytime through
the net, and hides under your pillow until
the propitious moment, when you are sound
asleep. Only in his case there is this com-
pensation, he does not know when to stop,
and gorges himself to such an extent that
his sin finds him out. In the morning he
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is weighted with his repast. Revenge
has its chance, and that is an end of him.
HUMOROUS STORIES
The Hospital Wardisperhapsthelastplace
where you would expect to come across funny
incidents. Possibly the sombre background
heightens by contrast what humour there
is, and gives it greater piquancy.
One very opinionative patient was cruelly
rebuked by a slip of the orderly's pen. I
asked him what religion he was, and for
answer he looked at me very superiorly and
said, " I am a Rationalist/'
" Oh, I understand," I replied. " I could
not just quite make out what was written
on your card."
We took it down for closer inspection,
and found that the orderly in his haste or
his army love for contraction had written,
" Religion— RAT."
Another on being asked what he was
suffering from quite innocently answered,
" C.O.E."
Again the orderly had been in a hurry
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In Lighter Vein
and had inserted his religious denomina-
tion in the space left for the description of
his disease, and the patient I suppose had
been wondering what kind of strange
illness these letters indicated.
This story reminds me of another. A
patient when asked by Rev. W. Cowan
what his disease was, answered, " Well, I
don't quite know. I have had three
specialists looking at me and they don't
seem to know either. You can put me
down as a medical curio."
This leads up to the story told by Mr.
W. M. Grant, one of our Guild workers.
A man said to him in the tent one day,
"I've had seeven dochtors, an' been rubbit
wi' seeven different kinds o' lotions, an'
forbye a' that I have had three peels, an*
I'm no a whit the better."
Rev. C. McEchern was passing through
one of the tents in St. Patrick's Camp on
St. Patrick's day, and came on a typical
Irish soldier looking very disconsolate.
" You ought to be in better spirits on St.
Patrick's day," he said.
In Lighter Vein
" I am not of his persuasion/' was the
glum response.
The difficulties of the chaplain have
sometimes their sadly humorous aspect.
Mr. Cowan was visiting a Welshman the
other day who was very ill.
" Have you written to your wife ? " he
asked.
" No, I am not able. Will you do it ? "
" Yes, but you must give me her address/1
For answer there came curious guttural
sounds from the man's throat. The chap-
lain bent his head as near as possible but
could make nothing of them.
" Spell it," he said at last in desperation,
for the man's strength was sinking, and
this is the entry that stands in the chap-
lain's notebook :
"CCLLHWRY Y "
The Scot is not supposed to be very quick
at repartee, but loyalty will sharpen any
man's wits, as it did the lad to whom
Mr. Cowan handed a magazine with the
picture of an actress on its cover.
" There is a pretty girl to look at," he said.
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In Lighter Vein
" Aye, but I ken whar thar's a bonnier
ane," was the retort of the true-hearted
lad, who was thinking of the girl he had
left behind him.
He was more chivalrous than his fellow-
countryman, to whom the same chaplain
put the question, " Are you married ? '
" Na, na ! " was the ungallant answer.
" Fechtin' the Turks is quite enough by
User."
There was grim point to the reply given
by a wounded soldier, who had been en-
during intense agony, when asked how he
felt. " Just as I wad lik' twa men to feel
— the Kaiser an' the Crown Prince."
From the mail-bag one might pick out
many tit-bits of unconscious humour.
Here is an extract from a letter by a lady
written to one of our chaplains. " My son
is in a Malta hospital suffering from dys-
entery. The last time he had it the doctor
ordered him half a pound of best rump steak
daily. Will you see that he gets it ? "
Another commission for the chaplain
was as follows, " Do you think you could
K i45
In Lighter Vein
possibly trace a pair of pyjamas, which I
sent to my son who was in a hospital in
Malta ? " "
So the shadows have their glimpses of
sunshine, and a laugh is occasionally heard
where it sounds strangely.
THE BELLS
But there go the bells : For months they
have been silent, and visitors did not know
they were in Valletta. Harder than for
many a busy gossip has it been for them to
keep their tongues tied, and now St. John's
has broken loose. Of course it is Sep-
tember 8, and all who read their histories
know that Valletta could not keep silent
on that historic date.
" Oh the bells, bells, bells,
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair !
How they clang, and clash, and roar,
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! "
If on September 8, 1565, they rang as
they are doing now I do not wonder that
the Turks ran away. From May 18 to
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In Lighter Vein
September 8 the ships and armies of Soly-
man the Magnificent besieged this island
fortress. Opposed to him was a small
band of the Knights of St. John, headed by
their Grand Master, the great La Valette.
Never has personal character or skilful
leadership inspired men more. La Valette
was everywhere. Although the world
realised it not he was fighting almost
single-handed the critical action of that
great contest with the followers of Moham-
med, whose rearguard action is being
fought to-day. La Valette first broke the
power of Turkey on the rocky cliffs of
Malta.
" Vain are the efforts of fierce Othman's hordes,
They bite the dust ; they see above them fly
The banner of the Cross upheld by swords
Of men resolved to conquer or to die."
On the morning of that September 8 the
bells broke into a laugh and the people wept
for joy. Not a warrior but was wounded,
not a wall but was reddened with blood ;
but the Turks had turned and fled. They
did not know how near victory they were ;
In Lighter Vein
how little blood there was still left to
be shed. The valour of La Valette and his
knights had awed them, and their com-
mander feared less the wrath of the dis-
appointed Solyman than the swords of
those men who set the world an example
of how to die. The inspiration of that
thrilling victory is left not merely to the
bells to repeat ; an Italian poet has caught
its spirit in his address to the Maltese
youth : —
" Let evermore that stainless glory shine
Before your eyes — the glory of your sires ;
And in your hearts, as in a sacred shrine,
Burn evermore their patriot warrior fires !
Oh, may the story of that deathless fight
Still make you like your fathers, brave and strong ;
May some great minstrel shape the tale aright
And tell it to the world in deathless song."
CHAPTER VII
ORGANISATION
MEDICAL
THE development of the hospital
accommodation of Malta has been
one of the remarkable achieve-
ments of the great war. At the beginning
of May 1915 only a few hundred beds were
available for the use of the sick and
wounded soldiers. In the succeeding
months those resident or on duty in Malta
were witnesses of a wonderful pageant —
the opening of hospital after hospital till
at the end of November 1915 the island
could accommodate 20,000 patients, and
actually did house that number. With
a little more effort the number of beds
could easily have been increased to 25,000,
and the plans and material for this increase
Organisation
were ready. In all twenty-seven hospitals
and camps were established, including
Chain Tuffieha, which in itself contained
four camps holding 4,000 men.
This development of hospitals, all admir-
ably staffed with medical officers and nurses
and equipped with everything that was
necessary for the welfare of the sick and
wounded, was due to the energy and ad-
ministrative skill of Colonels Sleman and
Cumming. They worked under the fostering
guidance of His Excellency, Lord Methuen,
whose extraordinary activity, enthusiasm,
sympathy and wisdom in counsel are known
to all workers in Malta. Surgeon-General
Whitehead arrived in August, and ener-
getically furthered the work on. Malta was
fortunate in the officers who came to serve
her, but behind all the brains and organisa-
tion so complete was the heart of the
Governor, which imparted the inspiration
and driving force which made all the
machinery run sweetly.
Engraved on His Excellency's heart must
be the motto, " Labor ipse voluptas,"
15°
Organisation
for he has won all hearts by his untiring
and incessant labours, visiting with the
regularity of a chaplain one hospital every
day, and cheering the wounded with ready
words of encouragement, and many a
happy sally. The motto I have quoted
gives the key of the reason why all in Malta
love him, and are proud to serve under him.
It is impossible adequately to describe
the wonderful work that has been done
in Malta. The reader should remember
that everything had to be imported into
the island, which, after all, is but a bare
rock, not supplying in peace time sufficient
food for the inhabitants, and growing only
vegetables, grain, fruit, poultry and goats !
Nevertheless the sick and wounded soldier
never lacked any comfort or luxury which
would aid his recovery.
In the summer of 1915 the hospitals were
staffed by nearly 300 medical officers, and
the nursing sisters reached almost 1,000
in number. Over the latter was Miss
Hoadley. She was assisted by the matrons
of the different hospitals. In the strenuous
Organisation
days they were almost swept off their feet
with the sudden inrush of nurses. To
appoint these to their several stations, and
select for promotion those especially quali-
fied for larger responsibilities, required quick
judgment of character as well as business-
like gifts. Everywhere and at all times the
medical officers and nursing sisters seemed
to illustrate in their daily life the concluding
words of a remarkable passage in Steven-
son's "El Dorado " — " And the true success
is to labour."
About one-half of the nursing sisters were
V.A.D.'s, or only partly trained nurses ;
but without their self-sacrificing labours
the sick and wounded could not have been
properly looked after and nursed. It is
only right to say that these so-called partly
trained ladies did superb work on many
critical occasions, and that many of them
were highly educated, and had made big
sacrifices in relinquishing home and com-
forts at the call of duty to nurse the British
soldier.
The fully qualified nurses had a great
152
Organisation
strain put upon them when the sudden
inrush of wounded came, but they rose to
the occasion manfully. The adjective fits
the case, for to all the feminine qualities
of tenderness and sympathy which are
necessary for a nurse there must be added
something almost masculine, not merely
strength of muscle, but a firmness of will,
and powers of quick decision. These were
manifested in the hospitals of Malta. The
matrons especially, exercised a strong influ-
ence in their several spheres. In charge
of Valletta Hospital, and also of the largest
home for nurses was Miss Brown, and she
discharged the duties of her dual office with
thoroughness and industry. Miss McFar-
lane who left St. Patrick's Camp, for St.
Andrew's Hospital, and then for the Front,
was the subject of many letters of gratitude
in the local press from her patients, and
the sorrow at her departure was one of the
finest testimonies to the power and influ-
ence of a good and clever woman in a
position of authority. In another chapter
I refer to Miss McDougall, who has since
Organisation
been promoted from Ghain Tuffieha Camp
to Cottonera Hospital. The blend of gentle-
ness and firmness, the happy knack of
putting patients and nurses at their ease
in her presence, is not only characteristic
of her, but of the other matrons in Malta,
whose success has depended so much on
mixing in right proportions the official and
human elements in their nature.
In the high pressure of work night and
day last summer Ruskin's words may be
used as descriptive of the Medical Officers
and Nursing Sisters of the Malta Command
of the British Army : — " Adventuring for
man's sake apart from all reward they
seem to long at once to save mankind, to
make some unexampled sacrifice on their
behalf, to bring some wondrous good from
heaven or earth for them or perish winning
eternal weal in the act/' and indeed death
took toll both of Medical Officers and Nurs-
ing Sisters.
To one of these I must allude for I have
experienced a personal loss in the death of
Lieutenant McGowan, of Grangemouth,
Organisation
who was stationed at St. George's Hospital.
From the start he offered to help me in all
my work, and during the months when I
was single-handed he and Captain MacKin-
non took practically the work of St. George's
off my shoulders. Busy enough with their
medical duties, they yet never missed a
service they could possibly attend, setting
a splendid example to their patients, which
was followed. Lieutenant McGowan was
seized with fever, and his illness was short.
It was my sad privilege to wait on him
during those days, and witness as heroic
a death as any on the battlefield. The
same night I officiated at his funeral, which
was one of the largest I have yet seen on
the island, as he was laid to rest in peaceful
Pieta with all military honours.
A word must be added in praise of the
British Army Medical Administration under
Sir Alfred Keogh, K.C.B. When the first
consulting surgeon arrived in May 1915
on the island he came with this message
from the Director-General, " We wish to
bring to the humblest soldier the best
Organisation
available surgery, and that which is not the
best is not good enough. "
During 1915 the following Senior Con-
sultants worked on the island.
Colonel Charles Ballance, Surgeon to
St. Thomas' Hospital.
Colonel Charters Symonds, Surgeon to
Guy's Hospital.
Colonel Thorburn, Surgeon to the Man-
chester Royal Infirmary.
Colonel Purves Stewart, Physician to
Westminster Hospital.
Colonel Gulland, Physician to the Edin-
burgh Royal Infirmary.
Colonel Garrod, Physician to St. Bar-
tholomew's Hospital.
These men worked as a band of brothers.
All serious cases were by order at once
notified to them by telephone and were
visited, and consultations held. No serious
operation or amputation was allowed to be
performed without consultation. Every
hospital was visited at least twice a week
by the physicians and surgeons ; and
methodical visits to the wards and to all
156
Organisation
cases were made as is the custom in peace
time in all the great hospitals. Sunday was
no exception, and on that day rest was no
more possible in the hospitals than on
week-days. The labours of the consultants
were incessant, and often extended far
into the night.
In the subordinary sciences, which are
so essential to the investigation of disease
and injury, such as pathology, bacteriology,
and radiography the island was well sup-
plied by Sir Alfred Keogh with able and
earnest scientific workers. These by their
labours immensely assisted in unravelling
difficult and obscure problems in Clinical
diagnosis and treatment ; and thus in
every conceivable manner the welfare and
recovery of the sick and wounded soldier
was provided for.
RECREATION TENTS
If you do not kill time, time will kill you.
The man who has nothing to do grows
prematurely old. Health-making is a com-
plex art : it requires not merely the surgeon
Organisation
and his bottles, bat stimulus for mind and
spirit.
His Excellency, Lord Methuen, was quick
to realise that fact, and welcomed most
gratefully the offer of Recreation Tents
for the wounded, when at the end of June
1915 I suggested the matter to him. The
Guild of the United Free Church of Scot-
land responded to my request by sending
out two thoroughly equipped tents, well
staffed by men experienced in such work.
The great organisation of the Y.M.C.A.
was not idle in the matter, and soon they
had a dozen or more tents on the island
with a staff of thirty workers. In a sub-
sequent chapter I refer to the organising
skill of Mr. Wilson, who so ably laid the
foundations of the successful work carried
on by the Y.M.C.A. A better man could
not have been sent to break ground, and
quickly he won the high esteem and con-
fidence of all from His Excellency the
Governor to the private who found in him
a true friend, and the sorrow at his depar-
ture was universal.
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Organisation
He was succeeded by Mr. Wheeler who
quickly developed the work. His Excel*
lency the Governor gave the Y.M.C.A. a
suite of rooms in the Palace Buildings for
Head Quarters, and with the assistance of
motor-cars they soon had completed an
organisation that left no camp uncared for,
and that reflects great credit on Mr. Wheeler
who has shown himself a master of detail.
H?? Excellency the Governor has, I know,
put a generous estimate on the part per-
formed by these tents in the recovery of
the men. Without those centres of recrea-
tion and fellowship life under canvas would
have been dreary enough, especially in the
more isolated parts of the island.
In a camp where one of our Guild Tents
has been placed the Commanding Officer
said to me that from the day it was opened
crime had diminished by 50 per cent.
ENTERTAINMENTS
But there were other things that were not
overlooked. Lord Methuen has shown
himself a true believer in the power of
Organisation
music to soothe and charm, and perhaps the
best exponent of his theory was the Hon.
Seymour Methuen, who is an accomplished
violinist. She was ever ready to place her
skill at the service of those who were seek-
ing to entertain the wounded. In this
connection there is one name that will be
remembered by the thousands whose days
of suffering were enlivened by music and
song, and that is Major Hasell. He was
the man behind the scenes. You had only
to give him the order at short notice for a
ready-made concert party, and the article
was promptly supplied. What necro-
mancer's art he possessed has been the
puzzle of us all. Certainly he never failed.
The Y.M.C.A. also did their best to supply
this need, and their splendidly equipped
concert party became very popular in all
the camps.
BRITISH RED CROSS AND ORDER OF ST. JOHN
This leads me to speak of the work of
one of the largest societies for the welfare
of the soldiers, The British Red Cross
160
Organisation
and Order of St. John. Endowed with
generously gifted funds and with splendid
head quarters, this society pursued its work
under favourable conditions. Its opera-
tions were varied. It supplied each hos-
pital with a staff of lady visitors. These
were warmly welcomed by the wounded.
It also had a little gift box prepared for
each arrival, containing just the things a
man might need. It was the recipient of
large gifts of clothing and hospital requi-
sites for the use of the wounded, and these
were distributed wherever required. It
also had a concert party that did yeoman
service, and in this way it carried
out most successfully its aim to care
for the physical and social needs of our
suffering soldiers.
One great centre of entertainment was
the beautiful building erected at Pembroke
by money sent from the colonies, and fit-
tingly named by His Excellency the
Governor, The Australian Hall. Here the
Red Cross carry on a Recreation Room for
the wounded in the Pembroke district, and
L 161
Organisation
on many nights in the week the large hall
is filled to overflowing with an audience of
convalescents who listen with great appre-
ciation to the entertainment of song and
recitation provided for them. The Gym-
nasium and Soldiers' and Sailors' Home,
carried on in Valletta by the Church of
England, have taken their share nobly in
the extra burden imposed upon them by
the war, as also the Connaught Home
run by the Wesleyans.
It would be impossible to speak of all
the methods that have been devised for the
entertainment of our wounded. Maltese
ladies have been eager to help, and many
a private party has been given to Tommy
which the world may not hear of, but which
he will not forget. The services which
Mrs. Bonavia has rendered have earned
the gratitude of all, and the special Tea
Room at Sliema, run by her and the ladies
of the Red Cross, has proved a most popular
rendezvous for the convalescent soldier.
The ladies of St. Paul's Church have done
their part by providing a roof tea every
162
Organisation
Sunday afternoon for the wounded, and
this has been much appreciated by the men.
While at St. Paul's Bay the wife of the
colonel in command there has started a
tea-room for the benefit of the troops in
that neighbourhood.
Thus it will be seen that nothing has been
left undone that could in any way lighten
the lot of the man whose ill fortune made
him fortunate enough to become one of
Malta's spoiled children. But you will
agree with me that they all deserved all the
spoiling that could be bestowed upon them,
and I am glad to say that their heads were
in no way turned by it, though the post-
man's bag was made the heavier by the
increasing number of letters of gratitude
written by the men when they had rejoined
their regiment, and were looking back on
the good times they had had in Malta.
All this varied social work found a ready
sympathiser and helper in Lady Methuen.
Not only did she organise and superintend,
but she visited personally the hospitals,
and no visitor left a more gracious memory
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Organisation
behind her. She cared for all classes. For
the officers she established a homely club,
where the strongest refreshment was a good
cup of tea, and which was much appre-
ciated by those who frequented it. For the
soldiers she was constantly planning some
new means of helping them. For the
nurses, along with His Excellency, she
gave up for several months their beautiful
palace of St. Antonio, that the nurses might
have a holiday there. These acts so
thoughtful and generous can never be for-
gotten as long as the story of Malta's hos-
pitals will be told.
THE ORDNANCE DEPARTMENT
Though out of sight the marvellous work
of the Ordnance Department in Malta should
not be out of mind. Remember two facts,
that into Malta practically everything has
to be imported, and that when the rush
came and hospitals and camps sprang up
in a night there was no time to send to
England for all the necessary equipment.
How was it supplied ? I will take you to a
164
Organisation
factory that usually turns out war material
only. But there were brains there as well
as hands. So all turned to, and soon all
kinds of hospital furniture was being
produced. Here were back rests for the
wounded, there full length-baths. Mos-
quito net poles, iron beds, motor trollies,
camp tents, limber and gun carriages are
but a small assortment of the medley of
necessary articles that took shape in this
establishment. From " a pin to a gun "
or " a needle to an anchor" is how one
might describe the endless variety, without
which Malta would have been powerless
to do its healing.
Five hundred workmen had the busiest
time in their lives, and their skill and
promptitude eased many a poor fellow's
suffering. " We are all soldiers only wear-
ing different uniforms," said His Excellency
the Governor to them, and their willingness
and devoted energy will surely not go
without its reward.
165
CHAPTER VIII
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
I CAN give it no other name. It is in
the hospital wards where this Valley
casts its longest and deepest shadow.
On the battlefield the shadow falls, but it
quickly flits past, leaving behind the
hastily dug graves. Death is sudden, the
Valley is robbed of its lingering terrors to
some extent ; but in the hospital it is other-
wise, the shadow lingers and you walk in
it for days ; nay, you are never free from
it. You see it gathering round this bed and
that. Too well have you learned its signs,
and though the brave sufferer says cheerily
that " he is getting on fine/' you know that
already his feet are entering the Valley,
and the heart yearns to light the way a
little for him. To hold before him some of
the Bible's gracious promises, that the dark
166
The Valley of the Shadow
path might be brightened, is the chaplain's
greatest privilege but most trying task.
To accompany the departing warrior as
far as earthly footsteps can, and then to
stretch out as it were the hand with the
torch of Truth that the rays may guide
him until, beyond the shadows, he passes
into a brighter Light ; it is this that causes
soul strain.
The shadow I see has fallen across my
manuscript — it falls everywhere here, like
the dust, and if for the moment you feel its
chill, my excuse must be, that if you wish
to understand Malta at present you can-
not escape looking into the Valley.
August has been very different from July.
The funerals have now mounted up to fifteen
and twenty a day. One beginsj;he day at
the graveside and ends it there. Every
morning as I drive out the one mile to
peaceful Pieta Cemetery I feel the revolt of
Nature at this haunting of Death. At six
in the morning Malta is lovely. The sun
has not yet got its deadly range, and in the
soft breeze one feels the wooing of life.
167
The Valley of the Shadow
The birds are happy, and when one hears a
laugh, which is rather a rare thing here, you
feel in sympathy with it. Even the solemn
cypress trees that keep sad vigil over the
graves seem less sombre. For the moment
one feels far removed from death, all round
there is an awakening to life. Then from
a distance on the morning air there breaks
in with its dull discord a single beat of a
drum, followed solemnly by another and
then another. Death is not banished, or
silent, but comes to mock the beauty of
life. Slowly the cortege nears, men can
set their watches by it now in Malta as
they hasten to their work. Not one coffin,
but many are laid in the deep, stone-lined
graves, and the town, as its activities begin
to stir, hears again the three solemn volleys
and the haunting echoes of the " Last
Post/' as soldiers bid farewell to their
fallen comrades. The officiating chaplains
part to meet again at the same place at
sunset, for the same sad duties. But be-
tween these hours there is much to do.
But come with me through the wards
168
The Valley of the Shadow
where the Shadow falls. The recovering
and the dying lie side by side. A curtain
round one cot tells its own tale. Behind it
the surgeon and nurses are making a final
effort to rally the ebbing strength of a
sinking man. But all are not in that con-
dition. So in our survey we will leave the
worst cases to the last.
From the background of Malta a great
procession of faces looks out upon me.
The person who stands still as the crowd
goes by sees more of them than one who is
actually part of the moving throng. The
latter is only familiar with those around who
keep step with him. A rough calculation
puts the figure at about thirty thousand
men with whom I have come into personal
contact either through visitation or by
meeting them at our Soldiers' Club. They
resolve themselves into types, and perhaps
a study of these might, interest you.
THE OLD SOLDIER
The man who saved the Empire, who
broke the back of the enemy before he got
169
The Valley of the Shadow
his first thrust home, all honour to the
courage, and discipline, and self-sacrifice
of this type of hero ! We have had many
here, and you can generally recognise them
at a first glance.
One I have good cause for remembering.
He was a sergeant in the K.O.S.B. His
twenty years' service had written his certi-
ficate plainly in his face. That he had been
so long in the army seemed almost impos-
sible, so youthful he looked with his smartly
trimmed moustache, though on a closer
scrutiny one recognised the lines on the
tanned cheeks, engraved there by strenuous
efforts, acts of quick decision in many a
tight corner, and by the moulding hand of
discipline which gave strong character to
the features.
I found it remarkably easy to win his
confidence. Perhaps the fact that I hap-
pened to have in my bag his home local
paper, which he had not seen for months,
was a key that helped to unlock the door
of his heart. He looked pretty badly
wounded, and I hesitated about telling
170
The Valley of the Shadow
him that on Sunday morning I was going
to hold a service in that hospital.
"If I can crawl along I'll come/' he
said.
This heartened me ; and, knowing how
difficult it is to start a service until it takes
on amongst the men, I added " and bring
any others you can."
" I'll bring 'em," was his answer.
On Sunday morning I was surprised at
the size of my congregation. Never before
or since have I had one like it there. The
Sergeant had brought 'em. He had made
his whole ward, which was a big one, turn
out en masse, without any fine distinctions
as to denominations of religion or over-
sensitive feelings for wounded limbs. Ban-
daged and on crutches they limped along,
the Sergeant bringing up the rear leaning
on two sticks. It was a tribute to the
wonderful influence he had over his fellow-
sufferers. He was a born leader of men, of
the type generals are made if only he had
had a wider education and greater oppor-
tunities.
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The Valley of the Shadow
THE BOY SOLDIER
We have had them too. There are no
lines on their faces, not even the buddings
of a coming moustache. They have trifled
with truth I fear, and followed the example
of their maiden aunt, whose weak spot the
census papers have discovered by manip-
ulating their natal dates, only instead of
aspiring to youth they have coveted age.
The recruiting officer also, I think, has turned
the blind spot in his eye on them, and so
they have become men before their time.
One who has been a frequenter of the club
has been called " The Baby." He is proud
of the title, which shows, of course, that it
is inappropriate, for if there was ever a
tougher little bit of humanity than this lad
I have yet to discover it. There is a
naivete about his battle yarns that is de-
lightful. His experience of the nursery
has been too recent for him to see anything
in the sterner realities of life than a big
game. This unconsciousness was a verit-
able shield to his soul, which had passed
172
The Valley of the Shadow
through the ordeal of battle without its
simplicity being marred, and yet withal he
is a little piece of hard granite.
There is another who has earned the same
name. He is the pet of a certain hospital.
Poor boy, all the kindness and caressing
are a meagre recompense for his lost limbs.
His pale face, and eyes liquid in their quick
tenderness of feeling, in whose depths one
searches in vain for a reproach against his
fate, move one strangely. He is a greater
force in the world to-day than when grip-
ping his rifle he formed but one in the long
khaki line. Suffering has singled him out
for distinction. He is a marked man in
the ward, he will be a marked man in his
whole journey through life. Voices grow
more tender in his presence, rough hands
vie for the honour of wheeling his chair.
The men who have legs of their own and
can walk up town always bring some little
gift back with them for him. Four the
other day said that they would lift his
chair into the ferry steamer and take him
for a wheel to the other side of the harbour.
The Valley of the Shadow
The nurses, I think, are jealous for his
smiles. Poor, fair-haired boy, who will
never walk again ; he is but beginning his
task. It will not be that of killing Boches.
To make a gentleman of every man who
meets him and a lady of every woman who
enters his presence, that is to be his future
role in life. Already he has begun well.
All the men in his ward are gentlemen, and
the nurses ladies, whatever they might have
been before. It has been good for others
to dwell under the shadow of that broken
life. He is destined to be God's polisher,
to refine other souls, to bring human ten-
derness to the surface, to make hearts the
reflection of divine pity and love.
THE MAN WHO IS IN LOVE
You soon get to diagnose his symptoms,
and it takes very little tact to draw out his
story. His wounded heart yearns for the
balm of sympathy. I have listened to so
many love tales, and read so many love
letters during these months that I now feel
an expert in the science. Really one very
174
The Valley of the Shadow
quickly acquires the art of discerning
accurately the position of your confidant.
Has he been cruelly jilted, or has some mis-
understanding which a word can put right
arisen, or is he the victim of morbid fancies,
or is the hand of the mischief-maker to be
detected ? A little practice and you are
soon able to answer these questions right
off. What plots for romance have been
suggested as real life unbared its tragedies
— and sometimes its comedies !
All these letters and talks have defined
for me one face ugly as Satan, despite the
hypocrisy of smiles, with eyes that cannot
look straight, and with lines of cunning
that blend into those of cruelty. It is the
face of the mischief-maker whose foul game
is to make sport out of the miseries of others.
The mental depravity of the mischief-maker
I can never understand. Unfortunately
he or she — I fear most frequently the latter
— has drifted into the nefarious pastime un-
consciously. Possibly they tasted blood
with their first sweet morsel of gossip, and
their moral downfall has been quicker and
The Valley of the Shadow
lower than that of the drunkard. The
morbid craving has enslaved them, and they
have become a pest to society. I never
knew what beasts of prey they were until I
saw the marks of their teeth and claws on
our suffering soldiers. Deeper and more
ghastly than the wounds of the Turk are
the injuries they inflict on the hearts of
their victims. It is all done so simply and
apparently so innocently. If I were a dic-
tator at present I would round up all the
mischief-makers and shoot them as traitors.
Dante, I think, consigned them to the
punishment of having their lips sewed
together with thread. But then Dante
was too kind ; he had not been a chaplain,
and listened to the heart agonies of men
who, exiled from home, felt powerless to
undo the evil.
Their letters have a wonderful sameness.
They are generally from a cousin, a sister-
in-law, or candid friend, and the remark
is thrown in casually that the writer has
seen Mary Jane with so-and-so, and that
they were very thick and something more.
The Valley of the Shadow
Mary Jane being, of course, the girl to
whom the soldier is engaged. Now, a man
who is lying on a bed of fever or pain has
generally lost the sense of humour. He
takes things very seriously, and as he has
little to think about except this bit of news
which he has got from home, he turns it
over and over in his mind until it festers.
The doctor wonders why his temperature
goes up, and one day it is the chaplain who
discovers the cause. In a confidential
mood the sufferer tells his trouble to
sympathetic ears, and the chaplain who has
had experience very soon sees that he is
on the trail of another mischief-maker,
and would like to wire home for her instant
arrest, only our laws do not reach the real
culprits.
Now, if these were isolated cases, I would
not have wasted a page on them, but,
looking back on my year here, and recalling
my conversations with the men, I see how
largely this topic bulks. Perhaps our wise
women at home can bring kindly pressure
to bear on all letter-writers, especially to
M 177
The Valley of the Shadow
our wounded, to avoid subjects that would
irritate or arouse suspicions. The man in
love forms a big percentage of our fighting
force, and his special difficulties require
delicate handling.
THE THOUGHTFUL YOUTH
There is a class of young man which
grows impatient at the kind of mental
pabulum considered by friends at home to
be just the thing for wounded men. I do
not say this class is large, but I fear that
it is not being catered for.
" I want something to make me think/ '
a young man said to me one day, when I
asked him what he would like to read. I
wished then that I had some popular his-
tories or good biographies, or religious
books that were readable, that did not
hide great truths under a ponderous weight
of learning which is apt to make sentences
top-heavy, but books in which truth was
put in simple and attractive form so that
the reader assimilated it, and was not
aware that the thoughts conveyed were
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The Valley of the Shadow
profound until they began to ferment in
his own brain and made him think. There
is need for such in our hospital wards,
where the mind is healthy and craves for
food though the body may be suffering.
Some youths of this class came to me the
other day. They were finding time heavy
on their hands, and wished to put their
idle moments to best advantage. So I sug-
gested that I would teach them French.
It would be useful for them when they
returned to the Front in France, and in
order that they might have the best of all
text-books to study I chose the New Testa-
ment in French, and have sent home for
sufficient copies. Future kind donors
might perhaps take the hint and remember
this special class, which is one that will
repay any effort spent on it.
THE GRATEFUL MAN
Some of the remarks which our seriously
wounded make unconsciously reveals the
spirit of the Briton. I asked one man
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The Valley of the Shadow
whose body had been mangled by a shell
if he were in much pain.
" Yes, when I think of it," he answered.
Another whose leg was off and who had
a bad wound in his back replied, " I might
be much worse, like that poor chap down
there who has lost his arm."
Mr. Cowan tells of a soldier who had a
wound through his chest, and who could
breathe only with great difficulty. This
was not his only wound, for the bullet had
first of all passed through his wrist.
" It was a lucky thing I got that wound,"
said the sufferer, pointing to his bandaged
arm. " The surgeon tells me that by
passing through my wrist the bullet got
cleaned, and therefore the chest wound is
not so dangerous as it would otherwise be."
There are always two ways of looking at
even a misfortune. Happy the man who
has the knack of seeing it from the stand-
point of gratitude. The experience of our
hospitals is that our soldiers practise that
art, and it greatly assists in their cure.
One day in passing through a ward Mr.
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The Valley of the Shadow
Cowan saw a patient with a crucifix hanging
above his bed. The man was a Roman
Catholic, and both his arms were badly
shattered, and stretched out in " cradles."
The thought suggested was natural, and
the chaplain could not refrain from remark-
ing that the crucifix had its reflection on
the bed.
" Yes, sir, but my suffering was nothing
to His ; it comforts me to think that the
Lord knows it all, and understands the pain,
and if He does not remove it He gives me
strength to bear it."
THE VALLEY
But I wished to take you just a little way
into the Valley with me that you might see
with what brave firm steps our heroes pass
from us. Where there are so many inci-
dents to relate I hardly know which to
-select. Let me choose the very latest, a
bedside I visited yesterday evening. I had
been spending four hours in Floriana
Hospital, and it was after seven o'clock,
and I was leaving a ward with the intention
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The Valley of the Shadow
of going home, when suddenly I heard a
faint voice say :
" Oh, Chaplain, speak to me."
I stopped and turned, and in the second
bed saw a white boyish face. I went over,
and the lad put his hand out and grasped
mine, and held on.
" I am not afraid," he said. " Only I
would like you to speak to me about God
and pray with me. I have to undergo an
operation."
Quietly in a few words I tried to picture
to him the compassionate Christ and tell
him of the door opened by the Cross. As
I went on I became conscious that there
were other listeners, and looking round saw
standing quietly behind me Colonel Symonds,
the surgical expert, with other two surgeons
and nurses. He had motioned to them not
to interrupt. When he saw that I had
noticed him he touched me on the sleeve,
and whispered,
" Go on, we will wait. It will be a very
serious operation. One leg at least will
have to come off."
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The Valley of the Shadow
That sidelight into the sympathy of that
great surgeon touched me much. His time
was precious. His day had no doubt been
a very busy one, and the hour was late, yet
he would not seek to shorten these last
minutes of spiritual consolation. I prayed
with the lad, and he held my hand all
the time. Poor dear boy, what he needed
that moment was a mother's tender touch.
He was about to sacrifice limb and perhaps
life for our sakes, and he so young and
gentle. Can we ever prove ourselves
worthy as a nation of such sublime offer-
ings ?
On returning home four yellow envelopes
lay on my table. I knew what these meant,
for these are the August days when death
is knocking constantly at the door. Three
were intimations of men seriously ill, and
could be left over until the morning. The
other was a dangerous case, which I knew
from sad experience meant that the man
was dying. He must be seen at once.
Perhaps he wished a will made out, a last
message conveyed to loved ones. At all
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The Valley of the Shadow
events he needed a word of comfort, the
grip of a human hand to steady his foot-
steps in the Valley of the Shadow.
Shall I take you into the secret confidence
of that solemn moment ? Will it be
breaking trust with the dead ? Something
I will keep back, but there is something I
will tell, without name, and in words that
are true to the spirit of the scene if not
exactly to the letter.
" Where do you come from ? J I asked.
He mentioned a parish in Scotland which
I knew. When I said so a glad light came
into his eye, and a faint colour warmed the
pallid cheeks.
" D'ye ken the hoose on the hill a wee bit-
tie aboune the kirk, that's my faither's ? "
" Yes, and I know this that he will be
praying for you to-night. "
" An* my mither tae — an — an — Mary.
Dae ye ken her ? She's no t waive yet, but
she's the cleverest girl i' the pairish."
He was thinking of his sister of whom he
was so fond.
" I will give them all your love, and tell
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The Valley of the Shadow
them that you will be waiting for them —
yonder."
He was silent a moment. Ke understood
my meaning, but Scottish reticence about
spiritual things sealed his lips.
" Ay," was all he said, but it came
from the heart, and was accompanied by
the glitter of a tear in the eye.
" You have had a good father, but there
is a better One waiting to welcome you.
He has opened the door of His home for
you, and stands ready to receive you. Will
you not be glad to see your Saviour face
to face ? "
" Ay."
" Do you know Him ? "
" Ay."
Then the reticence gave way, and the
dying lad made his first confession.
" He spoke to me the ither nicht. I was
alane on guard i' the trenches, an' He
seemed a' o' a sudden to come that close,
an' His eyes were fu' o' tenderness an' He
asked me if I loved Him."
" And what did you say ? "
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The Valley of the Shadow
" Just ' ay/ but I meant it, sir."
I thought of Christ's words, " Let your
conversation be yea, yea," and knew that
the monosyllable was more than enough.
Such is a glimpse of the Valley of the
Shadow as seen in our hospital wards ; and,
as one by one our dying men pass beyond
the range of human voice and touch to
encounter the last grim enemy, I seem to
hear the refrain of the hymn they loved,
and used to sing so lustily :
Onward, Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus
Going on before.
Christ, the royal Master,
Leads against the foe ;
Forward into battle,
See ! His banners go.
186
CHAPTER IX
A SCOTTISH PICNIC
MY typewriter and I have not kept
tryst with you for some weeks.
We have just been shoving along
through the pile of letters that faced us,
and did not feel justified in taking a morn-
ing off ; for it is a recreation and pleasure
to spend a few hours with Greenock friends,
even though it be through the medium of a
typewriter.
These weeks have not been idle ; indeed,
they have been so full of thrilling and
touching events that I do not know where
to start, and I hope you will allow me to
ramble, for this is
A LETTER, NOT AN ARTICLE.
There is a subtle difference ; in the latter
you are master of your words, you choose
187
A Scottish Picnic
them with deliberation, and affix with
effort the arrow point on to the shaft of the
sentence ; but in a letter you let the words
master you, you allow them to carry you
whither they will. When you start you
do not know where you are going, and you
have no need for arrow-heads for you have
no target. Of course it presupposes a most
indulgent and sympathetic mood on the
part of the reader. I feel somehow I may
take that for granted this morning, for of
your sympathetic interest I have been so
assured that I will venture a trial of your
patience. The real reason why I choose
thi3 method is that I have no imagination
left. I have been spending hours in filling
up the monthly army schedules of my staff,
and my mind has got so entangled with
red tape that it is bound hard and fast,
and can only think in terms of forms, and
were I to attempt an article there would be
no spring in it, and it would be fit only for
the waste-paper basket.
Speaking of letters : might I explain to
you the method of our correspondence, as
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A Scottish Picnic
it will interest a large number who have
written me. If the person enquired about
is known, or can be found in Malta, a reply
to the enquiry is sent at once ; if, as is the
case in 90 per cent, of the letters received,
we do not know about the person, then the
name is put on a list for further enquiries,
and it may take a long time before any
information can be obtained, if indeed that
is possible. So I trust that my corre-
spondents will exercise patience, knowing
that no enquiry is overlooked, and that all
will be done to discover any news of the
missing, and that silence simply means that
there is nothing to write.
MALTA SIGHTS
Malta insists upon doing a little of her
own nursing, and right cleverly does she do
it. She has a panorama of interesting
views with which to soothe the eye. I will
not speak of her appeals to the ear and the
nose. They have been greatly over-em-
phasised by other writers, and besides after
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A Scottish Picnic
iodine and other things even street smells
are a relief.
The man who is able to limp on his
crutches as far as the Porte Reale is soon
made to forget his pains. Perhaps nowhere
in such little space is there such variety
of costume or colour. He is soon as amused
as a child looking at some fairy scene. It
is a study in lights and shadows, for the
sun is always blazing except when it is
night. Here pass in review the dresses and
clatter of all nations. Just now the pre-
vailing colour is khaki, but there is always
the background of black, for the faldetta
is everywhere ; and then there are the
shovel-hatted priests, who are not few, and
the bearded Capuchins, and the sailor ashore
for a holiday, and the white uniforms of
his officers, with the scenic effect of palaces
and balconies, all of which fascinate the
onlooker on this real cinema of life.
But he has only to take a step to vary
the scene. Everything is so near in Val-
letta. Tired with the glare let him enter
the cool, shaded stillness of St. John's
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A Scottish Picnic
Church. At first his eyes can see nothing,
so dazzled have they become with the blaze
of sunshine. Then in the gloom of the
great building he sees stationary figures
every here and there. The faldettas of the
women kneeling at prayer, looming indis-
tinctly in the shadows, add to the sense of
awe. Then, as he grows accustomed to the
dimness, he begins to notice the gorgeous
mosaic pavement on which he is standing,
with its four hundred different armorial
bearings, or he gazes at the rich altar, or
walking across the nave, which is wider
than that of St. Paul's Cathedral, he surveys
the beautiful silver railings in the Chapel of
Our Lady of Philermos, and smiles when he
is told how Napoleon was cheated of his
spoil by a coat of paint. When the French
Emperor took possession of Malta he sought
out its treasures, but the guardians of this
precious silver railing made it look quite
ordinary and worthless by a superficial
daubing with paint, and it was passed by as
of no account, just as often in life we miss
seeing the consecrated in the commonplace.
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A Scottish Picnic
Rev. William Cowan, who is the poet
laureate of our staff, has expressed so well
in the following lines the spirit of the
place, that I cannot do better than quote
them from his book, Memories of Malta :
ST. JOHN'S CHURCH, MALTA
Enter, Oh stranger, through the curtained door ;
Behold the altar girt with silver rail ;
And tapestries which tell their sacred tale ;
The tesselated splendour of the floor ;
And chapels rich with treasure, where of yore
In flowing robe, or clad in coat of mail,
Repentant knights were wont their faults to vail
'Neath high resolve to go and sin no more !
Deeming that Christian nations should unite
In saving Christendom from that dark fear
Which threatened Europe, zealous for the right,
With consecrated shield and sword or spear,
Beneath this roof they pledged themselves to fight
For all that Christian manhood holds most dear.
But there are many other sights with
which to beguile the idle moments. The
armoury of the Palace with its four thou-
sand pieces links the present to the past ;
and, as you tread these ancestral halls and
see the motionless figures armed cap-a-pie
keeping their eternal vigil, you feel that you
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A Scottish Picnic
are back in the company of the old knights
and living in the classic days of Malta.
Malta, however, has a more ancient pedi-
gree, and as the convalescent soldier is able
to widen his circuit he can soon find him-
self in a much older world. The car will
take him near to the Hypogeum, and as he
descends to the rock-hewn vaults his fancy
may hear the footsteps of a race whose
weapons and implements were all of stone.
Yet in their rude, rough way those stone-
agers have done a service to the present
generation. They have provided them with
splendid bomb-proof shelters from the Zepps !
Haigar Kim is farther afield, but is worth
the long drive to reach it. It means
' ' Stone of Veneration ' ' ; and, as we stand in
this centre of Baal worship, we might almost
imagine ourselves back on the slopes of
Carmel on that historic day when Elijah
faced just similar stones and proved by
miracle the vanity of their superstitious
rites. Such ruins make more vivid the
days of the Old Testament, and as we meet
with the descendants of the ancient
N 193
A Scottish Picnic
Phoenicians, and Canaanites of Scripture,
the Bible stories of boyhood become more
real.
One great dome dominates the island,
and somehow one never seems to lose sight
of it. This is Musta Cathedral, and the
dome is said to be the third largest in the
world, its diameter being 118 feet. Its
chief interest, in addition to the wonderful
view secured from its summit, is the fact
that it was built with the voluntary labour
of the people of the village, who are now
justly proud of their great church. On its
steps you will always find some of our blue-
jacketed convalescent lads, whose curiosity
has been aroused by seeing its distant out-
line, and who do not leave the island with-
out a pilgrimage to its shrine.
But it is of another pilgrimage I wish to
tell you, and how it grew, and whither it
went, and what it meant.
THE PICNIC FOR SCOTTISH SOLDIERS
A large number of our lads from Greenock,
Glasgow, and the Clyde, who had passed
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A Scottish Picnic
through our hands in the hospital wards,
were about to take farewell of us and go
back to the fighting line, so we determined
to give them one day which they might
remember with pleasure among the hard
ones that lay before them. Mrs. Mackinnon
suggested a picnic, and at first we thought
of inviting only the members of those regi-
ments connected with the Clyde district.
But everything has a tendency to grow
quickly here. I hardly know myself in
these days, with my study turned into a
Departmental Headquarters and with a
staff that has grown from one to eight. It
reminds me of the " down-east " Canadian
farmer who sent his son west to seek his
fortune with the advice, " Young man,
grow with the country.'* Well, our picinc
became infected with this spirit of growth.
There are large numbers of Scotsmen re-
covering from the wounds of their first
action, so we found that we could no longer
limit our invitation, but had to include all
Scottish soldiers. Then a company of
Scottish nurses arrived on their way to
A Scottish Picnic
Serbia, and we thought that it would be
nice for them to carry away a pleasant
memory of Malta. Thus our picnic grew.
Then we happened to visit the great camp
at Ghain Tuffieha — it does not pronounce
as it spells — and amongst the thousands
there were many Scotsmen ; were they to
be left out ? So our party grew and grew
until on the eventful day it numbered 280.
As befitted the occasion, the morning was
Scotch. We had our first rain. Not the
soft kindly drizzle of the West Coast, but
something that reminded me of Greenock
on a certain August day two years ago. It
was complimentary of the elements, but
there are compliments that one would
rather dispense with. However, Malta
cannot frown for long, and soon the sun
was blazing again, the dust was laid and
there was an attractive freshness in the air.
The clouds had after all been weighted with
blessing, as is the way with most clouds,
if only we have the patience to wait. Long
before the hour of departure a large crowd
had gathered at King Edward's Avenue.
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A Scottish Picnic
There also stood the forty brakes and
carozzin — which is the plural for carozze.
Some of the guests were on crutches, but
looking very happy ; others had an arm in
a sling. The majority were once more in
full khaki, which meant that they were
ready to face the foe again. A happier
crowd one could not wish to see, and their
lightheartedness betokened the
TRUE SPIRIT OF OUR BRITISH SOLDIER.
The enemy has failed to damp that. It
took much arranging to get them all seated,
and then our long procession started off.
From the distance, as it wended its way up
hill and down dale, it might have seemed
like a great funeral, were it not for the peals
of hearty laughter and the outburst of song.
In order to make the drive instructive, a
neat little leaflet had been prepared de-
scribing the sights of interest on the way.
Malta is full of history. In fact at every
turn one's imagination is carried back to
the past, and you seem to live in a bygone
age. Perhaps nowhere more so than when
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A Scottish Picnic
you catch a glimpse of St. Paul's Bay, with
the little island so accurately described in the
book of Acts. Then we laboriously climbed
the hill to Citta Vecchia. Passing through
the walled gates of this ancient town one
feels as if the twentieth century were left
far behind in our return to the past. Then
at the other side of the hill, after nine miles
of a delightful drive, Boschetto suddenly
unfolded its charms beneath us. On the
left, in a commanding position, was seen
Verdala Palace. The dignity of age rests
well upon its solid masonry. The Grand
Master Verdale built it in 1588. To-day it
is modernised, and makes a fitting home for
His Excellency the Governor. Beneath in
the valley, down to which the Palace
gardens slope, is a veritable Eden, just one
little sheltered patch of green and shade in
this parched land. Value is to a large
extent a matter of contrast, hence Boschetto
is a paradise to the Maltese. It might pass
almost unnoticed in many a picturesque
corner of the home land. My good fortune
followed. It seems to be my happy lot in
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A Scottish Picnic
life just to meet the right man at the right
time. To how many such helpers have I
been indebted ! Such a one is Mr. Chalmers
of the firm of Messrs. Blackley — like his
senior partner Mr. Morris, he has grudged
no pains to facilitate our work for the
wounded. On the occasion of the picnic
he excelled himself. Under the shadow of
the trees he had screened off with large
Union Jacks a sheltered space where long
tables were erected loaded with tempting
eatables. I can reassure you that
THE REPAST WAS WORTHY OF GREENOCK.
The inroad of nearly 300 was an event in
this secluded part of the island. His Ex-
cellency, the Governor, Lord Methuen,
accompanied by his daughter, the Hon.
Seymour Methuen, came to greet us. With
much arranging we got some photographic
views taken ; but, alas, like those of our
hall last week, they have turned out a
failure, except two taken while at table.
When at last we were seated at table,
and had begun in the orthodox way of
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A Scottish Picnic
Scotsmen by singing the second Paraphrase,
and with prayer, His Excellency made a
very happy speech, dwelling with tact on
the prominent part Scotsmen were taking
in the terrible struggle. I had an oppor-
tunity later of telling what Greenock was
doing for the wounded, and I am glad that
this has been reported in the local press.
After our meal games followed, and there
was a general saunter round the place. It
was now that one of the most extraordinary
results of our picnic came about. There
were cases of brothers meeting one another,
the one not knowing that the other had
been wounded or was in Malta, this being
the first and only gathering of Scottish
soldiers. In the crowd I ran against
Stanley Lee of South Street, Greenock, who
was in an Australian regiment. He did
not know that his brother, Sergeant Lee,
had been wounded and was on the island.
Unfortunately it was too late for them now
to meet, as the sergeant had returned to
England. I heard also of four young
fellows from the same workshop in Glasgow
200
A Scottish Picnic
meeting. They were all unaware that any
of them had been in Malta.
All too quickly the shades of night began
to fall, and we gathered once more in a
large group and sang the Doxology. As I
looked up and saw a star suddenly shine
through the blue that was deepening into
black, and looked on that mass of upturned,
manly faces, and caught the swell of their
song as it blended into a mighty chorus,
" Praise God from Whom all blessings flow/'
I felt within the surge of a triumphant
emotion. These men were bound to win,
for theirs was the confidence of David,
" The Lord of Hosts is with us ; the God of
Jacob is our refuge."
201
CHAPTER X
UNDER CANVAS
MY title does not convey the whole
truth, only half of me was really
under canvas — my better half;
the remainder was lodged in a hut ; but all
this needs explanation.
To most people, I suppose, Malta is
thought of as a mere dot, or one big rock.
I can see that this idea underlies the
thoughts of many of my correspondents,
who seem to think that I am within ten
minutes of every hospital. But there are
distances here as in other places, and I
have just been inspecting some of the far-
away camps — hence my title and my story.
Now, I am not going to mention names
for various reasons : first, to reassure the
Censor that no enemy, after reading this,
202
Under Canvas
will be any the wiser as to where the camps
are which I have visited ; and secondly, to
spare your tongues, for the names are jaw-
breaking, and I do not wish to cause you
personal injury. It will be sufficient
to know that they were " somewhere in
Malta."
Although I am a true-blue Presbyterian,
some of the duties of a bishop are falling
to my lot ; my flock is a scattered one, how
scattered I did not fully realise until I took
this tour. All our chaplains are keen and
hard-working, but there are some corners,
and those big ones, which even yet we have
not turned, and as the responsibility of
seeing that our soldiers are ministered to
even in out-of-the-way places rests on me,
I resolved to quiet my uneasy conscience by
going to see for myself.
From one far-away camp a strange mes-
sage reached me. It came from a wounded
soldier who was lying there. He said he
was glad, for the sake of the half-dozen
Presbyterians in his tent, that the Senior
Chaplain was coming, but all the men would
203
Under Canvas
be Presbyterians if the Chaplainess came
too. So the Chaplainess packed her bag
along with mine, and on a fine Saturday
morning we left Valletta for our week-end
in the country.
A very comfortable motor had been put
at our disposal by the Government, so there
was the zest of a holiday as well as the com-
fortable sense of doing one's duty, as we
whizzed and tooted along the narrow
roads.
Of sight-seeing as yet we have done very
little, leaving it to the happier time when
the first chimes of peace will sound cessa-
tion to our labours ; yet if one carries open
eyes almost every object here is a " sight. "
As we dived down into the valleys with
their patchwork of fertile fields we caught
glimpses of peasant life. Here we meet
the original race in all the parity of their
ancient Mediterranean blood. Last night
I had a long talk with a Maltese officer who
is an authority on the history of the island,
and we discussed the sources of this unique
people. A common belief is that they are
204
Under Canvas
the old Canaanites, whom Joshua drove out
of Jericho, and certainly there is much to
favour this supposition, as they are cer-
tainly allied with the Phoenicians. My
friend, however, urged a more ancient ped-
igree, and tried to prove from skull measure-
ments, as well as ancient inscriptions, that
here we have the direct descendants of the
" Mediterranean Man." He flourished cer-
tainly 4,000 years B.C., and if age confers
honour on a race the Maltese have that
claim. Like every people they have to be
understood to discern their virtues, and the
more one knows of them the more one dis-
covers qualities to admire and honour. The
passing tourist, who forms his opinions from
the Carozze men, who cheat him, deceives
himself and does discredit to his hosts. A
patient, industrious people, who carry on a
stubborn fight with Nature, is the verdict
of the stranger who views their countryside.
I would like to take some of those who talk
wildly about the un-reclaimable land in our
Scottish Highlands to the stone deserts in
Malta, which have been made " to blossom
205
Under Canvas
as the rose " by pure industry. The very
soil in some places has been imported, and
every inch of ground round the rocks, that
are too big to be moved, is cultivated with
care. If we followed the example of the
Maltese our waste lands would support a
teeming population.
The people in the country differ from
those in the towns. They are simple and
retiring, and many, I am told, spend their
whole life without ever having been in the
streets of Valletta. Here we saw the heavy-
limbed oxen at work, and the women with
their hoes bending over their task. We had
got far from the tinkle of the goat bells,
which are heard in the streets. We dashed
through little towns whose lanes were built
on the zig-zag principle of the modern
trench, and perhaps for the same purpose
of defence. At last, after all the sensation
of a rough day at sea, we slid down the last
hill, swung round the last curve, and there
stretched out before us a great array of
tents.
206
Under Canvas
A HOSPITABLE WELCOME
The kindness received during our week-
end visit to this camp is beyond words.
Officers and Sisters have made it a memor-
able one. The home of the soldiers is to be
found in a great Y.M.C.A. tent, which has
been erected in the middle of the camp.
This tent is but a part of the wonderful man
who is its centre. It seems only a short
time ago since one morning there called for
me in Valletta a young man whose person-
ality impressed me from the start of our
acquaintance. He had j ust arrived with a
large tent, and I was able to put him in
touch with the right officers. Now all
know him, and in that short time he has
won in a remarkable way the esteem and
confidence of all, from His Excellency the
Governor to the private soldier, who has
found in him not merely a sympathetic
but a practical friend and helper. It does
credit to the Y.M.C.A. authorities that they
discovered the exceptional talents which
Mr. Wilson possesses for the work to which
207
Under Canvas
they have set him. The officers, Sisters,
and men in this great camp told me pri-
vately how much Mr. Wilson's coming had
meant for them all, and there was universal
sorrow when a telegram was received
yesterday sending him to the Front. He is
certainly the right man for that more
heroic venture, but I doubt the wisdom of
the Y.M.C.A. in taking him away from a
centre where his influence for good has
become so great. He possesses that subtle
blending of sympathy, kindness, and firm-
ness. He invites trust because there is
strength and judgment in his deci-
sions.
The officers had got up an " afternoon
tea " for us, and in their quarters a long
table was spread. The Sisters who nurse
in the tent hospitals were invited, and a
very happy party we all made. I found
many Irish, several Scottish, and some
Canadian doctors on the Staff. They natur-
ally feel a bit shut out in this distant camp,
but the isolation has compensations. The
air was delightful, and the view of rugged
208
II
H J
15
Under Canvas
cliffs and deep blue sea was restful after
the narrow streets of Valletta.
The Sisters' quarters are a little way
from the main camp. A Scottish lady — of
course — is Matron, and one feels proud of
one's country on being introduced to Miss
M'Dougall. She is one of those matrons of
whom you are not afraid, and yet she rules
with a firm hand ; but she has that touch
of sympathy which evokes the loyalty and
love of those on her staff.
One of the latter I must mention, for it is
well that those at home should know some-
thing about the nurses to whose hands their
sons are entrusted. This lady is also — of
course — Scottish, although born in Canada ;
but she can speak Gaelic. So wise in
judgment and shrewd in her knowledge of
human nature, and withal possessed of
such a big heart, that the needs of others
seem to be her one thought ! Such is this
Miss M'Gregor, and such are some of those
brave women who, in their self-sacrificing
service, show to the world the true charm
of noble womanhood. From such hands
o 209
Under Canvas
our laddies receive a mother's care, as well
as the skill of the latest scientific training.
The Sisters sleep in bell tents ; a larger
marquee had just been erected in their
grounds to contain seven beds, and Mrs.
Mackinnon had the honour of opening it
and being its first occupant. So now you
will understand the enigma of my first
sentence. I had a bed in one of the officers'
huts, so that my title " Under Canvas "
does not really apply to me, but to my
better half !
A SUNDAY IN CAMP
In the blistering heat of August I mis-
called the weather of Malta. True, these
days are not so very far away ; only last
week we had a sirocco, which caused every
one to perspire in the same old midsummer
fashion. But Sunday made up for it all.
There was plenty of sunshine, but the
breeze seemed to have the suspicion of a
nip in it, so much so that some of our
Argylls in a confidential moment hinted to
Mrs. Mackinnon that singlets would be a
2IO
Under Canvas
great boon, and at this present moment
she is busy purchasing some for them.
Possibly if the nip becomes a little more
acute the need may be intensified. I know
how quick Greenockians are to take hints,
perhaps they might give this a thought.
Up to the present the very idea of heavier
clothing has been an oppression, but the
climate, like other things in the Eastern
Mediterranean, is a bit fickle.
The morning parade service was con-
ducted by the Anglican chaplain. It took
place in the open, the clergyman and officers
alone being on a sheltered stage. It was
an inspiring sight to look into the faces of a
thousand men. Many were about to go
back to the firing line, and would be spend-
ing the following Sunday face to face with
death. I may say in passing that the
relations between the Presbyterian and
Anglican chaplains are most friendly.
Naturally where there are many camps
and hospitals, and many services to arrange,
there must be a brotherly spirit of give and
take, and so far all difficulties have been
211
Under Canvas
surmounted in a spirit of kindly co-opera-
tion.
After service, as there were a few hours
to spare, and the morning is not a good
time for visiting the tents, Mrs. Mackinnon
and I were tempted to take a walk. I am
not going to say how many miles it was to
St. Paul's Bay. To a Greenock minister
whose work has developed the right kind
of muscles it means just half the distance
that it is to others. The invigorating air,
the bright sunshine, and the interesting
objects en route made the way seem short.
On the hillsides we saw cave dwellings
still inhabited as they were four thousand
years ago. Then we descended to one
of the few real beaches in Malta. Here
bays are still called creeks, and as we sat
where the wavelets broke on the sand the
scene in the book of Acts was vividly pic-
tured to us.
' ' When it was day they knew not the land ;
but discovered a certain creek with a shore,
into which they were minded, if it were
possible, to thrust in the ship. And falling
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Under Canvas
into a place where two seas met, they ran
the ship aground. "
In front of us was clearly visible the place
where the " two seas met." A little island
divides the waters at the entrance of the
bay, and round this the waves swirl in a
storm, and their meeting churns the surface
into foam.
A monument marks the traditional place
of the landing, and there is every reason to
credit the site. As I sat there I felt the
centuries bridged. The eyes that had
looked on the vision of the Crucified had
looked also on this spot, which is little
changed. There was a sermon in the
thought.
That afternoon we went through the
hospitals, and had a word and gift for all
our Scotch lads. Also in the tents I had
some delightful chats with men whose
thoughts naturally turned to the home-
land. Here again I met Sergeant Lee's
brother, of South Street, also Sergeant
Leggatt, whom I had last seen at St. David's,
while Mrs. Mackinnon was surrounded with
213
Under Canvas
a crowd of those who when nearer Valletta
used to frequent the Reading Room and
enjoy the Greenock teas. The afternoon
passed all too quickly.
At 6.30 p.m. I conducted the service in
the big Y.M.C.A. tent, and the sight was
an inspiring one. Seats were provided for
about 500, but every inch of standing
ground was also occupied, and round the
doors as far as one could see the men
crowded. I thought, as I looked into those
earnest faces, of the loafers on our streets
at home to whom the church bells mean
nothing. What a rebuke to them there was
in that audience if only they could have
seen it ! One's pride in our soldiers in-
creases daily. To them religion is a reality,
and if only these men are spared to return
to the homeland the day of the moral weak-
ling will be past.
But there, I have exhausted my space,
and not even finished the story of a day.
I would like to have told you of some of
the officers I met in the Mess. One, a major
interested me greatly, and we talked on
214
Under Canvas
long after the lamp had burned itself out
and left us in darkness. He is one of the
few old regular officers left, and had been
all through the retreat from Mons, and the
subsequent battles. Our conversation left
me very optimistic. He said in decisive
tones that Germany was already hope-
lessly beaten. On this consolation I slept
soundly. On the following morning the
motor was waiting, and we said good-bye
to our new friends in that isolated camp
with feelings of gratitude for all their
kindness.
215
CHAPTER XI
CHRISTMAS IN MALTA
CHRISTMAS has been casting, not its
shadow, but its sunshine in ad-
vance over the wards of our hos-
pitals. The ceilings were the first to catch
its glow. From their heights festoons of
crimson-and- white and every rainbow hue
began to hang their graceful loops, and the
men who could look up from their beds
caught the gladness of their message.
CHRISTMAS AS A HEALER
The reflection of Christmas first crept
over the wan faces of the sufferers as they
watched the festoons grow. There was
something now to look at, where there
had been bare walls before. Interest for
the eye is a factor in healing that is often
overlooked.
216
Christmas in Malta
For instance, the other day I was in one
of our hospitals, the windows of which
look out on the Grand Harbour. As I
stood by the bedside of a wounded man
the view attracted me. A fringe of curling
surf lined the breakwater where the Mediter-
ranean swell, like some other things, was
kept at arm's length from the sheltered
waters within. At that moment a big
battleship was making her way slowly out-
ward. With her snake-like tail, armed with
its two stings, she suggested an ocean
reptile as she crept through the waters,
and she almost seemed to twist her trail-
ing body as she swung through the narrow
channel.
" You cannot weary here," I remarked
thoughtlessly. The man's bed, which was
on the opposite side of the ward, faced the
window, and for the moment I imagined
he also could see the harbour. " Sky and
ceiling is all that I have had to look at
for these weeks," he responded. I lowered
my head to the height of his pillow, and
realised the truth of his words. If his bed
217
Christmas in Malta
had been raised just a few inches he would
have had a reserved seat in one of the most
picturesque and natural cinemas of the
world.
Christmas has given our patients some-
thing else to look at than bare walls. In
fact, these can hardly be seen now, so
covered are they with decorations. Mottoes,
festoons, crowns, bells, and a hundred other
old fancies have been worked out of the
same material — ordinary tissue paper of
every colour, — until the stock in Malta has
run short. The lettering of white wool was
in some cases glued on to cardboard by
jam instead of gum, or by the remains of
certain milk puddings, which some of the
men said made excellent sticking paste.
In one ward I was impressed by the
unity of design. Nothing was out of keep-
ing with the dominant chaste idea. There
were no mottoes hung haphazard, no over-
elaboration of one section of the room to
the disadvantage of the other. In fact,
only one central inscription was allowed,
and that was " God Save the King." On
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Christmas in Malta
enquiring for the master mind that had
the strength of character to impress his
individual design on all the others, I
found it beneath the bed-clothes. In one
cot lay a man badly wounded, but his
brains were unimpaired, and from the
blankets he dictated his commands to the
willing workers who had recognised his
genius. Ris absorption in his work made
him forget his pain, and the Christmas
joy had no purer reflection than on the
face of the artist, as from his pillow he
surveyed with admiration the working out
of his own designs.
In another ward the chief adornment
was an excellent model of the Lord Nelson,
made in cardboard by one of the crew.
Perhaps the busiest man in Malta that day
was his Excellency the Governor, Lord
Methuen, as he sped in his car from hospital
to hospital, with words of appreciation and
encouragement. Next to him should be
ranked the nurses, doctors, and chaplains,
amongst whom there were no idle hands.
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Christmas in Malta
GIFTS
Thanks to the hampers received we were
able to give a present to fully three hundred
Scottish soldiers. Mrs. Mackinnon had
these done up in suitable small parcels, and
Sassenachs wished that they had been born
in the Land of the Open Hand.
Many a fair Santa Claus had filled the
socks she had made with something to eat
as well as to wear. For there were little
boxes of chocolate hidden in the toes.
Here was something to warm the heart as
well as the feet and brace the courage.
Pinned on one pair was a slip of paper with
this verse written in a girlish hand : —
When ye are hidin' ahint the rocks,
Think o' the lassie wha made these socks.
Tea outside ! It sounds strange for
Christmas. Yet on the balconies of most
of the hospitals long tables were spread,
fairy lights hanging from above cast their
glow over plates filled with cakes ; and the
doctors, traitors for once to their own
220
Christmas in Malta
profession, actually assisted in handing to
their patients what on other occasions they
would have forbidden with a frown. But
then, that is the way of Christmas, and its
truce seems to be extended not merely to
the minds and hearts of men, but to certain
internal organs, which usually are only too
ready to prove querulous on the slightest
excuse. At all events, I was told by
several Sisters that -temperatures were
not up on the day succeeding.
MALTA WEATHER
The best and most appreciated gift was
that sent to Malta by the " Clerk of the
Weather/' From a series of delightful
days he chose the choicest. The clear
atmosphere, bringing near objects miles
away ; the bright sunshine, that warmed
but did not overheat ; the suspicion of a
nip in the air — all made Malta a different
place from those August days, when every
limb was weighted, and the only place to
escape from liquidation was in a cold water
bath, and even then, though submerged,
221
Christmas in Malta
one had a grave misgiving that he was
perspiring still.
The weather had its own Christmas
decorations, and I never saw finer. It
reserved the best for the sunset hour ; then
Nature began to hang up her fairy lights.
What colouring there was in the sky ! The
deep blue merging into dark purple towards
the horizon, and the sea, as if vieing with
the heavens, changed to green. I never
suspected Nature of being a suffragette
before, until she brought out her Christmas
ornaments and advertised her sentiments
in colour. Only for a few minutes she held
us spellbound ; then she rang down the
curtain of night. But now her real illu-
minations were only beginning. I have
seen stars in the dim distance before. That
moment she brought them near at hand.
Looking down from one's roof that night
at the lights of the town shining so clearly,
at the lights on the harbour which made
the waters seem alive as dghaisas, like
fireflies, skimmed the surface of the sea ;
and then, looking up from man's limitations
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Christmas in Malta
at God's lights, one felt that the symbol for
Christmas was rightly a star.
Later on we returned to Valletta Hospital
to be introduced to Father Christmas. Very
patriarchal he was as he marched through
the wards, and his violin solo took the
audience in one of them by storm. His
Scottish reel made the men without legs
painfully realise their loss. There was
something very familiar about his accent
when he spoke, though I do not think that
even the United Free Church people of
Banchory would have recognised their
minister. They may be assured that Rev.
Wm. Cowan is putting his talents to splen-
did service for the welfare of the wounded,
and in his own parish of hospitals has won
the hearts of the men under his charge.
"Padre," the soldiers' term, is the best
word for the chaplain. It expresses that
quality which elicits the confidences of the
men. Strange and touching are the stories
we often have to listen to, and sometimes
the services we are asked to perform are
most confidential and delicate. I have been
223
Christmas in Malta
very fortunate in having as colleagues men
who have proved genuine " Padres/' and
we only wish that our expressed desire for
the return of Rev. Donald Campbell had
been gratified. His whole-hearted services
here are not forgotten. Just yesterday I
met a New Zealander who had returned to
Malta wounded for the second time, and
whose first enquiry was for the Greenock
Padre who had been so kind to him at
Floriana in June.
THE SCOTTISH TEAROOM
I could take you through endless wards
where men are fighting pain with the grim
determination of the battlefield ; but there
is one centre of goodwill which you should
know about, if not take an interest in.
Scotland has been belying in Malta the
character which those who are ignorant
of her give her. She will be known in far
Australia and New Zealand as long as the
tale of Malta's hospitals are retold as the
Land of the Open Hand. The Mother
Country has revealed a mother's heart and
224
Christmas in Malta
care towards her sons of Empire. Six
months ago our Scottish hall was opened in
Valletta, and every day has been a Christ-
mas there, as far as gifts are concerned.
A table has been spread daily for the
hungry boys, who, having found their limbs
again, have also suddenly re-discovered
their appetites.
If you know what enteric is, then you
will know what it means to be hungry, and
you will not consider two teas in an after-
noon an extravagance — the one in the
hospital, made by an orderly, and the one
in this " hame frae hame," where ladies
handle the teapot with that gracious skill
which adds an indefinable flavour to the
tea.
They come into this little hall from the
ends of the earth. The Australian, with
his easy stride ; the New Zealander, who is
a fine compromise between the Scotch and
colonial character ; the Newfoundlander,
thick-set and square-shouldered ; the Irish-
man, who is an inch taller since the Dublin
Fusiliers said with their rifles and bayonets
p 225
Christmas in Malta
to Bulgaria " Stand back" ; the English,
the Welsh, and our own laddies ; and not
least the dark-skinned sons of India, who
drink their tea, and who must needs march
to the kitchen and salaam to the ladies by
way of thanks. From 400 to 500 a day
they have come, and Scotland bids them
welcome. A cup of tea is not much in
itself, but an essay could be written on all
that is inside and around it ; and so it is
always Christmas Day in this little hall.
CHRISTMAS TRAGEDY
But the season did not pass without a
reminder that the angels' song was falling
on deafened ears. Into our service on the
Sunday night walked twenty dusky Cinga-
lese. Their ship, the Ville de la Ciotat, had
just been submarined by the enemy. They
gathered round me at the close, and told
me their story. This Christmas they will
remember not for its joy and goodwill, but
for its hatred and inhuman cruelty. In-
stead of the angels' song, they heard that
day the mocking laughter of men who
226
Christmas in Malta
jeered at their despair. Without a warn-
ing their ship was struck as they were
sitting at a meal. At 15 knots an hour
she plunged to her watery grave, and in
those few minutes when hands gripped
hurriedly the lowering tackle of the boats
all rushed on deck. One of the life-boats
filled with women and children capsized,
and the occupants were thrown into the
water and drowned.
One of the men told me how he jumped
into a boat which immediately afterwards
was smashed against the ship's side. Grasp-
ing a rope he hauled himself once more on
deck, just in time to be carried with the
final plunge of the ship into the waves, from
which he was rescued at last by friendly
hands. In suspicious tones they spoke of
two foreign steamers which had been in
their vicinity shortly before the attack took
place. In high praise they referred to the
captain of a British ship, which came to
their rescue while the wake of the submarine
was still plainly visible ; and on this boat
they were brought to Malta. And after a
227
Christmas in Malta
meal these twenty Cingalese sought out the
Presbyterian Church, and were in time to
join in our evening service. They were sad
at heart, for they had lost nearly half their
comrades ; but, as I looked into their
swarthy faces, I felt proud that British
khaki clothed such heroes.
NEW YEAR
The celebration of New Year's Day was
different. It was more purely Scottish.
"It is a capital arrangement, " said one of
the garrison officers to me. " On Christ-
mas Day I turn out a Scottish guard to look
after the other chaps, and on New Year
we set the English to watch the Scottish/'
There was a touch of home about New
Year's Day, with its morning church service
and opportunity for good wishes. For
night we had arranged a big social for the
St. Andrew's unit of the R.A.M.C. In
passing let me pay a deserved tribute to
this splendid body of men. I have come
much in contact with them, and know how
exacting their work is. " Orderly !
228
Christmas in Malta
orderly ! " How that call is for ever
echoing through our wards, as some poor
fellow in pain calls for help. Also I find
that this corps are apt to be overlooked.
Hence we reserved New Year's night for
them. The hall was packed, and we had
a real Scottish soiree. Our youngest and
most versatile chaplain, Rev. Charles
McEchern of Tighnabrualich, was in his
happiest mood, and with song and story he
helped to make the evening a merry one.
" I wish we could have a whole evening of
him" was what I heard one man remark-
ing. What choruses we had! Staff Ser-
geant Lee taught us all in five minutes how
to imitate the bagpipes; and I am quite
sure even a hundred pipers an' a' could
never give such a startling blast or weird
drone as lips and lungs produced that
night. Too quickly the hours sped, and
the strains of " Auld Lang Syne " fell on
the midnight air, and the little bit of
Scotland resolved itself into Malta once
again.
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Christmas in Malta
VISITING THE ARGYLLS
Now I have a feeling that I am not
getting into the right swing of this letter.
There are many causes, the hour is late,
and the day has been a busy one ; but, when
I tell you that it has been spent in visiting
the Argylls in the various hospitals, I know
I have secured your interest without literary
wiles, and your pardon for slipshod ex-
pressions and heavy sentences.
About thirty Argylls have just come in,
so I have devoted a day in trying to see
them. Let me tell you how I got on. I
started in the motor-car immediately after
lunch. I had a call to make at Verdala
Palace, which is near Boschetto of picnic
fame, and my Jehu seemed to realise that I
had to put thirty visits into the afternoon,
for we took the corners of narrow streets at
perilous angles, and when we did get a bit
of straight road we hardly seemed to touch
the surface. After leaving Verdala Palace
we had to cross nearly half the island to
reach St. Patrick's Camp. Skirting Citta
230
Christmas in Malta
Vecchia, we dived down into numerous
little villages, bringing momentary con-
sternation into groups of children, mule-
drivers with their carts, and goats. But
my driver, I saw, had a good eye for the
fraction of an inch, so I gave faith its oppor-
tunity.
We drew up at St. Patrick's Camp. The
first Argyll I found was Kemp, who was
quickly recovering from his encounter with
a Turkish " coalbox." He offered to be my
guide in my search for the other Argylls,
and was of great assistance. In tent H 3 I
found also M 'Leod, who seemed in the best
of spirits despite the bullet wound in his
arm. How brave our boys are ! Next I
spoke to Donelly, M'Gilvray, and Leimon,
about whom their friends need have no
anxiety. All seemed glad to see me, and
the few Telegraphs I had soon disappeared.
Then we crossed over to another row of
tents, and I had a nice chat with Richard
Hamilton, who was lying in bed. He is
doing well, though somewhat weak. He
had been buried in earth by a shell. From
231
Christmas in Malta
there we crossed over to visit Gray, who
is able to go about. Then we walked to
the very top of the camp and found M 'Cart-
ney and N. Adam. The former, who was
a chum of David M'Dougall in the trenches,
had been told that I would be sure to look
him up when he arrived in Malta, so he
was expecting me, and I am glad that I
acted up to expectations. After a little
search we discovered II. Robertson, who
is moving about, and at last Simpson, who
has been flitting from one tent to another.
His eye is getting quickly better. So with
regard to the Argylls at St. Patrick's I can
give a good report. Kemp accompanied
me back to my car, carrying my bag, which
was now nearly emptied of its contents,
and I started with a farewell wave to H 3,
where the Argylls were standing.
My next camp was St. David's. We had
a cross-country journey to it, through
lanes that would make Devonshire ones
seem thoroughfares in comparison. It was
lucky we met no cart or mule on the way —
lucky for them I mean, and after many
232
Christmas in Malta
sharp turnings we slowed down as we ran
into St. David's. We take a paternal
interest in this camp ; for it is here that
we have pitched our tent. I can remember
it in its babyhood, with its swaddling
clothes of mud and little else. Now it is
a "castrum" worthy of Roman soldiers.
Fine roads have been made through it,
well paved and firm ; and most wonderful
of all, it has prettily laid out gardens with
flowers blooming and vegetables ripening.
Truly, the desert has been made to blossom
as a rose. In its centre stands the United
Free Church Guild Tent, a stately ornament
of canvas. Useful, too, for within are large
numbers of men sitting at tables reading
or playing games. In this camp I found
T. Fisher. He also will soon be convales-
cent.
Then I boarded my car again, and went
on to All Saints' Camp. Here a consider-
able search was required before I discovered
W. R. Stewart. He was looking splendid.
Now the car was turned homewards, but
we stopped at St. Andrew's Hospital to
233
Christmas in Malta
make two calls. Here I found J. Currie of
the Argylls, who was down with enteric.
But it is a mild case, and gives no cause for
alarm. A friend of Rev. Donald Camp-
bell's lay in another block, named Millar,
and I dropped in to give him a word of
cheer. He is progressing slowly.
When I regained my car I looked at my
watch with a start. How the afternoon
flies out here, especially when you are
talking to Greenockians ! At that moment
I was timed to speak at a meeting some
miles away. But I had faith in my Jehu,
and he did not disappoint me. I arrived
at the Scotch Church Hall in Sliema in the
nick of time. The chairman was just going
to announce that I had not come when I
walked in. Here the glow of the New Year
lingered. Rev. W. Cowan was giving a
Scotch social to his parishioners. He had
brought them from the different hospitals
in his parish to that hall, and he had com-
mandeered my wife to make tea. About
120 Scottish wounded were present. A
good tea had been provided, and the men
234
Christmas in Malta
looked too happy to be bored with much
speechifying, so I told them just what you
have all been thinking, how proud you were
of all of them.
Now I am afraid that I have bored you
with these commonplace incidents of a
chaplain's day, which is just like so many
others. Only I know that to some it will not
seem commonplace, for it has reference to
their brave sons ; and I wish those at home
to feel what I have told the men here, that
while they are in Malta they are to look upon
me as a " Padre " in the realsense, one who
will father them, and on Mrs. Mackinnon,
to whom I find they tell their needs more
readily than to me, as one who will stand
in the place of their mother. They are a
family we are proud of, noble fellows !
AN ARGYLL'S FUNERAL
Yet %ry report — for that is what my
letter has become — is not to be without its
sad note. Private Gordon Smith (2947)
died of his wounds at St. Elmo Hospital
on Saturday, a few hours after being ad-
235
Christmas in Malta
milled. His home address is 14, Serpen-
tine Walk, Greenock. The first announce-
ment I got of his arrival was the news of
his death. He had been badly wounded.
His funeral took place on Sunday after-
noon, and though it was not my turn for
funeral duty that week I arranged to take
it, feeling that his friends in Greenock might
prefer that one from their own town should
lay their hero to rest.
I closed my Bible Class half an hour
sooner, and drove to the cemetery in good
time. As I stood robed at the gate my
thoughts were in Greenock. I felt that I
must be the eyes for the friends there. I
hope to send you shortly a photo of Pieta,
where now more than one Greenockian lies.
Then from the Porte de Bomb there broke
on the quietness of the Sunday afternoon
the beat of a drum, slow, mournful ; and
soon I could see coming down the tree-
shaded street the gun carriage with its
burden. As the procession turned the
corner and moved to the gate, and the
soldiers took their stand with rifles reversed,
236
Christmas in Malta
I stepped forth to meet my fellow towns-
man, glad that Greenock had its represen-
tative that day. Silently his comrades in
arms bore him to his last resting-place. The
Presbyterian service allows latitude, and so
there were many things in my prayers that
moment which the bystanders might not
understand ; but He whose eye rests on
the home by the Clyde, as well as on the
carnage of war, will answer with His own
consolations the petitions by the open grave.
So we left this heroic son of Greenock with
the echo of the parting volleys, and the
Last Post, in our ears ; and he left with us
a bequest, the greatest of all heritages, the
example of noble self-sacrifice and heroic
achievement.
237
CHAPTER XII
RELIGIOUS WORK AMONGST THE WOUNDED
WHAT about the ultimate results of
all the war work in Malta ? I
do not now refer to the mere
mending of limbs, the giving of a good time
to the patients while they sojourned here.
That has of course absorbed a great deal of
the energy of the workers on the island.
But though this phase of local activities is
the one naturally most evident, has there
not been something accomplished which is
less transient ? I think so. There has
been Empire building of an enduring kind.
The fact that nearly one hundred thou-
sand youths at the most impressionable
period in their lives, with spiritual instincts
quickened by the perils of the battlefield,
have had time for meditation forced upon
238
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
them, has not been lost sight of by those
whose special care is the development of
Christian character.
The men who have passed through our
hospital wards have come into touch with
spiritual influences, and as we part with
many of our patients, who go back to rejoin
their regiments, the farewell hand-grip, the
word of gratitude bespeak the stirring of the
soul's deeper feeling.
HARMONY
His Excellency the Governor, in his fore-
word to this volume, has very wisely em-
phasised two striking features of the
work in Malta, harmony and co-operation.
This has been true of every department, and
particularly so of religious work. The
Senior Chaplain of the Church of England,
Rev. M. Tobias, who has now gone to the
Front, was a man of such breadth of sym-
pathy and genial manner, and sound com-
mon sense that friction in co-operation with
him was an impossibility. This is true also
of the Rev. Peverley Dodd, the Wesleyan
239
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
Senior Chaplain, whose aim in life seems to
be to smooth the way for others, and
most successful he is in it. Not only does
he carry on his ministerial duties, but
superintends the Connaught Home, a large
institution for soldiers and sailors which
has proved of great service during these
war days.
Rev. C. Marker, the Senior Roman
Catholic chaplain, has also co-operated in
a most brotherly fashion in common effort,
and in their varied duties the different
chaplains have always sought to assist one
another by forwarding to the right quarter
the names of any soldiers they came across
who wished to see their own chaplain.
Thus the work has been made easier for all.
This feeling of good fellowship has cer-
tainly received inspiration from the head-
quarters of all denominations, the A.A.G.'s
sanctum. Major Howard- Vyse, the mili-
tary officer responsible for the Chaplains'
Department, has handled his team with
great skill. If he were an ecclesiastic, I
would suggest him as the most suitable
240
: *
o
I I
fa "'£
0 S-
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
man for effecting union amongst all the
churches. After his success in Malta ad-
vocates of union should keep their eyes
on him. They might do worse than take
a few leaves out of his book.
RELIGIOUS RESULTS
So much for organisation, now for fruits.
During the year we have had three special
evangelistic missions amongst the men with
very gratifying results. In May the Church
of England chaplain, along with Rev.
Donald Campbell and Rev. G. A. Sim,
started a series of meetings in Imtarfa
Hospital. These were splendidly at-
tended, and struck a key-note that has
distinguished that hospital during all these
months. The responsive audience here is
always like a bath to the soul. What is
left of us after an eight miles' journey in
the heat and a busy day may be very limp.
But standing on a platform in a hall where
practically every chair is occupied, and men
sing, with an intensity I have never heard
before, •" I need Thee every hour/' makes
Q 241
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
one forget all physical weakness, and I
never turn homeward without a strange
gladness in my heart. Such is the effect
that certain congregations have on the
preachers, and I have noticed that every
chaplain who ministers in turn at Imtarfa
becomes infected with the religious buoy-
ancy of the place ; and though they being
new-comers may not know it, I trace the
results back to those stirring evenings when
the first wounded men from Gallipoli con-
fessed so earnestly their faith in Christ.
Nearly a hundred of them came forward
with the old request, " Put down my name,
sir," as they enrolled themselves under the
Banner of the Cross. That generation
quickly passed away, a few weeks at most
was the length of each man's stay. Mr.
Campbell, the gracious fragrance of whose
ministry still seems to me to linger round
these beds, in due time also left, but the
blessing remained. The new audiences
still sing the old hymns made sacred by
those first nights of consecration. Staff-
Sergeant Fryer alone is left now to recall
242
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
those moving moments when men in tens
gave themselves to God ; and, as his voice
rings out the notes of the familiar hymns
that upbore the souls of those men to the
Throne of Grace, I catch the echo of those
days. Many of the men who made con-
fession then had returned to their regiments
to take part in the battles of the subsequent
months, and to-day they are no longer
seeing through a glass darkly but face to
face.
Who can take stock of the steady work
of the chaplain as he goes in and out
through those death-shadowed wards ?
Just as you cannot identify the special
ear of corn in the harvest field that sprouted
from a particular seed, so it is not possible
to recognise the fruit of much that seems
very commonplace service. As Senior
Chaplain I have been very fortunate in my
colleagues, who accepted the tradition of
hard work joyfully. I do not think I over-
drew for them the picture of Mr. Campbell's
faithfulness, going forth after breakfast
with eager feet laden with literature and
243
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
Testaments for the wounded, returning
with dragging footsteps for lunch, and
setting out immediately afterwards on the
same errand, because he could not think
of " those poor dear boys passing a night
in their pain without a prayer, a hand-grip,
a word of comfort." So he set the pace and
outdid his own strength, but left an example
that has stimulated his successors.
Rev. Alex Macinnes, one of our chaplains,
has put his experience in the following
words: —
" We have seen the men in various
camps and in different stages of their
training ; the raw recruit, with wonder
and surprise in his eyes, depression and
sometimes rebellious thoughts in his heart ;
the trained soldier, strong, equipped, dis-
ciplined, intelligent ; the men leaving in
drafts for the Front, smiling to disguise their
not unmanly tears, wondering what experi-
ences awaited them, trusting, many of them
in the protecting love of the Father God.
But in Malta we saw sick men, and all our
previous experiences seemed to go for
244
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
nothing : sick men, after the privation and
suffering of the Peninsula. Let it be said
right away that we never met one discour-
teous man, one unbeliever, one sceptic.
All of these may have been there. We
never met them. The sick soldier seems to
have no use for scepticism. It might amuse
him in civil life ; not in Malta. All of
them were willing to speak about religious
matters, the soul, the Saviour, Eternal life,
naturally and easily. It seemed to be the
main thing to speak about. Some asked
me to pray with them. All said that they
would like me to pray when we suggested
it. On Sabbath how fine our meetings were !
The men usually chose the hymns, ' Come
away boys, shout out the numbers/
Whatever the four might be, 'Jesus, Lover
of my Soul/ and ' Rock of Ages ' were
always there. Rarely did we hold a ser-
vice but some lad or lads waited behind to
talk. They would tell of the Bible Classes
they had attended, the Church, or Mission
Hall, the Choir in which they had sung.
Such experiences were most helpful and
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Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
encouraging. Many of the lads confessed
that they had lost their grip of the Unseen ;
but they were anxious to re-enlist in the
Army of Jesus Christ. Yes, the Spirit of
God was at work. The men had had time
to think. They had looked into the face
of death. They had seen their companions
falling by their side. They had realised
their own miraculous escape. They had
been brought back from the gates of death.
God's merciful guardianship was over them,
and they knew it. Some of them, it must
be confessed, changed not for the better
when they became stronger ; but these
were few. God has done a gracious work
in the hearts of all of them, and many of
them left St. David's Camp and the Tent
which they loved next to their own home
realising that the Saviour was a real Person,
the most real Person in all the world/'
I can only speak of the great moments
when men confessed their faith in such
numbers that all took note. Such another
movement took place at Ricasoli. Again
all the chaplains of the different denomina-
246
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
tions united. Mr. Menzies was our repre-
sentative, as it was in his " parish/* I
always listen with delight to his preaching ;
but that Wednesday night, when the
marquee was packed with wounded men
and his words about sin went home, I felt
the responsive throb-beat of that big
audience as never before. There were quiet
Scottish lads there, who at home were shy
about religion, who now with tears in their
eyes and unashamed made open confession
of their loyalty to Christ. One feels these
scenes are almost too sacred to be written
about, yet it is right that the world should
know the manner of man we have sent to
our trenches, and not accept a caricature of
the British soldier as the conventional type.
We have seen that type ; but we have also
seen the boyish laddie who dared to go down
on his knees to his Maker, and the bronzed
sergeant who faced unflinchingly a packed
tent to tell the " old, old story." The men
of Ricasoli have separated, but I feel sure
that as long as they live they will not forget
those nights. The net was again cast, and
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Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
sixty or seventy made open confession of
their faith.
Judging by numbers, the biggest success
in our work was that obtained in our third
series of meetings which were held in the
large camp at Chain Tuffieha. Here again
all the denominations united, though the
Rev. J. A. Kaye, the United Board Chap-
lain, and the Rev. W. L. Levack of Leuchars
were the soul of the movement. It was in
the days before the Orkney hut, and the big
Y.M.C.A. tent was put at our disposal.
Every night for a week it was crammed to
the last inch of standing room. No preacher
could desire a more inspiring audience.
The array of eager young faces that con-
fronted the speaker fanned his fervour.
These are the men who after the war are
going to set the world right, and one felt
that they were in the right kind of prepara-
tory school for that task. Hardship and
danger like cruel pick-axes were breaking
the fallow ground of their hearts, and now
was the moment for sowing the good seed.
Aptly was it scattered in those furrows,
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Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
and the result that was immediately mani-
fest, great though it was, could only be a
fraction of the spiritual good done. It
strengthened one's own faith to see how
interested these young men were in the
things that pertain to the soul.
War has its degrading influences, but it
has also its quickening agencies. Men think
as never before when confronted by eternity,
and never once in all my experience have I
met a wounded soldier who resented any
reference to religion. In fact I have found
it nearly always welcomed.
Strange and sometimes almost amusing
are the arguments that impress. The other
day I met a man who let me know with
some pride that he was an agnostic. I
might say that he had not been at the Front
and smelt powder, but had been dropped
off in Malta as an invalid on the way out.
I have always found that those who have
been under fire are much easier of access.
In fact, after a few minutes' conversation,
though no reference has been made to the
subject, one can usually guess correctly
249
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
whether they have been to Gallipoli or
not.
The patient I refer to took me in hand
from the start, and expounded evolution to
me in tones that admitted of no contradic-
tion.
" The whole universe has evolved itself,
and we are entirely the product of our en-
vironment/' he said. " There is no place
in it for religion. "
" In fact we are the helpless victims of
natural law/' I added.
" Yes, natural law is pitiless. Mercy is a
thing it does not know. It is unalterable/'
" But how about its exceptions ? " I
asked.
" Exceptions ? " he queried, looking a
little puzzled. Then he added with em-
phasis, " It knows nothing about excep-
tions/'
" The law, for instance, that heat ex-
pands is rigid," I said.
" Yes."
" If that were so," I continued, "ice
would then be formed at the bottom of our
250
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
seas, where no summer sun could reach it,
and pile itself up with successive winters
until all our lakes and oceans would be
filled with ice and the earth become unin-
habitable. Your law of heat expansion
required an exception to make life possible.
Below 32 degrees it is cold that expands.
Who made that exception ? Someone surely
who is greater than the law, and who
is merciful to mortals/'
It was an old, simple argument that I
hesitated about producing, yet it torpedoed
this man's reasoning. I left him with the
query, and when I returned some days later
he said,
" I cannot get that exception out of my
thoughts. Some higher power has certainly
interfered with the law of heat."
" But it is only the Author of the law that
has the right to amend it and He has done
it in love."
From that day the man was very silent,
and I saw that he was thinking deeply.
What the result was I had not the means of
knowing for he passed on.
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Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
BIBLE DISTRIBUTION
The National Bible Society of Scotland
has been one of our best helpers, and put
into our hands " the sword of the Spirit,
which is the Word of God." Three thou-
sand copies have been sent to us free of
charge, and these we have handed to the
wounded. Had I time and space I might
recount many interesting stories of these
Testaments. Let me mention two.
Here is a touching incident told to Rev.
Donald Campbell by a wounded Glasgow
Australian lying in the Valletta hospital.
On Mr. Campbell asking if he had a Testa-
ment, he replied, " Yes, here is a Bible that
I picked up on the field of battle near Gaba
Tepe. ' ' Then he produced a well-bound copy
of the Scriptures of the Oxford type, bearing
the inscription, " To Harry from his mother.
The Lord watch between me and thee when
we are absent the one from the other,
17/9/14," and expressing the hope that he
would be brought home safely to her.
Close beside the Bible a letter from the
252
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
mother was lying, which the soldier had
taken possession of. From it he learned the
full name of the " Harry " of the inscrip-
tion. He expressed his confident hope to be
able to restore the Bible to the mother of
the young Australian who, he feared, had
fallen in action.
Another interesting story was also told
the same day by a private of the Royal
Scots. He showed Mr. Campbell a Bible
through which a bullet had passed and been
diverted, thus saving his life. He said that
he had received this copy from Miss Ewing,
daughter of Dr. Ewing of the Grange,
Edinburgh.
Y.M.C.A. WORK
Malta has afforded another illustration
of the perfect organisation of the Y.M.C.A.
Under the energetic guidance of Mr. Wilson,
its pioneer worker on the island, equipment
and staff soon kept pace with the sudden
increase of camps and hospitals. In
October, 1915, the first marquee was erected
at St. Paul's Camp, and in November the
253
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
larger one in All Saints' Camp. At the
same time the largest tent, a go-foot marquee,
was set up in Ghain Tuffieha Camp. His
Excellency the Governor at the opening of
these tents spoke with warm appreciation
of the Y.M.C.A.
The religious element has been kept in
the foreground. Every day closes with a
gathering of the men for family worship.
Their attitude at these moments is the best
indication that a spiritual as well as a social
need is being supplied. There is no
impatience, no grumbling if games are
interrupted for that purpose. An air of
reverence at once pervades the scene,
talking ceases and heads are bowed as
an account of the day is rendered to
God.
The opportunity for educating the minds
of the convalescents has not been over-
looked. Historical and general lectures
have proved very popular, and Lieut.
Laferla, a Maltese officer, has done much
by his lectures to inform the men con-
cerning the history and customs of Malta,
254
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
Subjects suggested by the War, such as
" The Growth and Power of the German
Empire/* have greatly interested the
audiences.
Mr. T. B. Wheeler succeeded Mr. W. T.
Wilson, and he brought to completion the
work that was started by his predecessor.
Soon he had eight large tents erected at
different centres, and he developed the work
in many ways. One of these was in catering
for the musical tastes of the men. Male
voice choirs were formed, and at Chain
Tuffieha Camp a splendid orchestra was
organised, the instruments being provided
by the Countess of Chesterfield's Ladies
Auxiliary Committee. But the greatest
success was that scored by Miss Lena
Ash well's Concert Party, whose services
offered by the Y.M.C.A. were gratefully
accepted by His Excellency the Governor,
and the echoes of one of their songs still
seem to haunt the island with their blood-
curdling thrill ! Altogether this party gave
one hundred concerts.
Mr, Wheeler soon got erected two large
255
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
Recreation Huts. One is situated in St.
Patrick's Camp, and has proved itself a
welcome centre for the men. Perhaps the
hot climate of Malta makes these rooms
even more acceptable than elsewhere. In
the tent the air grows suffocating by mid-
day ; outside it is even worse, and it is like
stepping into a hot oven to venture out ;
but in the Recreation Hut there is com-
parative coolness. Hence it is filled. The
other hut has recently been erected at
Ghain Tufneha. It is a gift from the
people of the Orkney Islands, and is worthy
of its donors. Scotland in this has showed
itself again " The Land of the Open Hand,"
and Malta can never forget the generous
part played by it in ministering to the sick
and wounded.
The Hut, which is a large one, capable of
seating five hundred men, was shipped to
Malta in sections, and erected by the
convalescents in that camp of the un-
pronounceable name but of happy signifi-
cation, "Valley of the Apple." Fully
equipped for reading, writing and games,
256
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
with an elegant stage and capacious re-
freshment bar, it has already proved an
immense boon to the men busy with try-
ing to get fit again. Already the grateful
recipients of the gift have laid out the
surroundings in gardens and attractive ap-
proaches.
Thus has the Y.M.C.A. faced its task in
Malta. The practical sympathy of His
Excellency the Governor has done much to
make the work easier. His gift of the suite
of rooms in the Palace Buildings for a
Y.M.C.A. Headquarters has proved most
valuable. The staff of about thirty has
done its part well, one whose services have
been greatly appreciated being Mrs. Holman
Hunt, the widow of the famous painter.
But without the organising brain and
energy of a good leader the present success
could not have been attained. When Mr.
Wilson left every earnest worker in the
island felt that the loss was great ; and now
that Mr. Wheeler has chosen the sterner
part of fighting in the trenches instead of
ministry, the community, while admiring
R 257
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
his patriotism, feels that the force of a
strong and wise personality will be sorely
missed. He is succeeded by Mr. Lewis, who
has already won the confidence of all.
Thus in its selection of agents the Y.M.C.A.
has been most fortunate.
All the chaplains and religious workers in
Malta have been greatly encouraged and
helped in their work by the sympathy and
ready assistance of His Excellency the
Governor. A motor was placed at their
service, and where there were so many
camps and outlying garrisons this proved
invaluable. Rev. W. Cowan had taken
with him a \vonderful little lantern with a
light whose brilliancy was out of all pro-
portion to its size, and he had also an
assortment of slides fit to draw tears to the
eyes of every homesick Scot. There was
not a fort on the island at which British
troops were stationed which had not its
"Night in Bonnie Scotland." Over fifty
such lectures were delivered, and it was
often near midnight when we rumbled back
258
Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
into Valletta through deserted streets in
our car.
His Excellency was seconded in all his
efforts for the good of the men by Lady
Methuen. She has been ever quick to
devise means for adding to the comfort of
the wounded and in caring for the large
number of young men for whom Valletta
has its temptations. Her graciousness and
the esteem which she has earned in Malta
make her assistance in any endeavour a
source of great strength and success, and
ungrudgingly has she given such support
to all religious and social effort.
Thus have the hands of the workers been
upheld, and the way made easy for them ;
and though the memory of the past year
is haunted with its nightmare and the
vision of the glazing eyes and drawn features
can never be forgotten, across its dark
background there shines a wonderful rain-
bow. Malta has added a bright chapter to
human history, and with reverence will its
hospitals ever be named ; for there sacrifice
has once more been enthroned, and unself-
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Religious Work Amongst the Wounded
ishness garbed in nurse's cape or surgeon's
uniform proclaimed the triumph of love ;
and there might be heard for those who
had ears to hear the footsteps of the Great
Physician.
Printed in Great Britain by Hatdl, Watson & Viney, td.,
London and Ayletbwy.
PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY
D Mackinnon, Albert Glenthorne
629 Malta
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